Sa Femme
by Funsmoke
Summary: There is another woman in the Palais Garnier. Where is Erik, and what is Raoul becoming? Not a MarySue, companion piece to 'The Dying Hours,' and set four months after.
1. The Audition

Chapter One: The Audition

I held my breath as Gabriel Mercier, casting manager of the famed and fantastic Palais Garnier, looked me over with his eagle-eye, from the stitching in my shoes, to the braid of my hair. 'Your French is better than that of our former Prima Donnas.'

'I have lived in France, mostly in the Southern Provinces, for some years now.'

'You are English?' he suddenly looked directly into my eyes.

'Irish, monsieur.'

There was a moment of silence, during which I steeled my nerves and forced myself to stand elegantly still. 'We are not looking for a contralto, Mlle. Avalbane.'

'I know. But you haven't yet heard me sing. I could very easily fill in for a male tenor, and I have in the past. I hear there were some misfortunes with your former star, a M. Fonta?'

'Yes.' Mercier crossed himself. 'You have sung male roles then, before?'

'Yes, several. The latest I have sung was that of Beowulf.'

He blinked at last. 'A taxing role. Very well, I will hear you sing.' I very nearly opened my mouth then to allow the notes of come-what-may fall from my lips, but he held up a hand. 'Not today, of course. You have been speaking for hours, and you have been in the city amongst the smog and pollution. You will sing tomorrow. You have a place to stay in Paris?'

'No, monsieur.'

'You may stay in the Palais, in the dancer's quarters.'

'Thank you, monsieur.' I nearly bowed before recalling myself, and dipping into a curtsey.

'Meg Giry will show you the way.' Mercier opened the door to the antechamber. 'Marguerite,' he called, and a young girl., slender and dark-complexioned, perhaps seventeen to nineteen years of age stepped forward. 'Show Mlle. Avalbane to the dancer's quarters. She will take Christine's old loft.' the girl dipped and motioned to me with a graceful movement of her arm.

'This way, mademoiselle.' I hefted my carpetbag and followed her into the hall. 'So,' she began, once we were out of earshot of the office, 'what brings you to the Palais Garnier?'

'I need a job. And I know you need singers.'

'That we do,' sighed Marguerite. 'Since Christine Daaé ran away with M. le Vicomte, now the Comte de Chagny, and then Carolus disappeared...'

'I've heard. The scandal and romance are all over the papers, though I hear this alleged Phantom is deceased?'

'Yes. Yes, he is.' she lowered her wide, ingenuous black eyes.

'You sound almost sorry for it.'

'Well...he could be a nuisance when he took it in his head to be, and he took it into his head nearly all the time, frightening us like that.'

I couldn't help the wolfish grin that lifted a corner of my lips. 'I am nearly sorry I was not here before the famous kidnapping. I have some experience in ghosts, myself, and in debunking them for the frauds that they are.'

'Oh, is that so? You must have had a very colourful life, then. Are you not British?'

'My parents were Irish, but the first time I saw their homeland was at the age of eleven. I was born in Egypt, and travelled in Italy, Spain, Portugal, Greece, India, and recently, that is, for the past two years, I have lived in Southern France.'

'That must have been quite the traveling circus.' she joked.

I smiled thinly. 'Yes, mademoiselle, it was.'

'Well, here we are.' Marguerite opened a door, and led me into a large dormitory. There were some fifteen beds lined up, each made neatly, with white coverlets and blue pillowslips. Various bits of clothing and half-full washbasins cluttered with makeup revealed that it was nothing if not a women's habitation. There was a bed in the far corner of the room, and Marguerite pointed to it. 'That is yours, now.'

'Thank you, mademoiselle.'

'Call me Meg.' she smiled. 'Everyone does.'

'Call me Fallon.' I extended my hand, and she shook it warmly. I turned from her, and let my bag fall on the mattress appointed to me as she left the room. Tugging my watch from my jacket pocket, I glanced at it. Five forty-two. Not quite early, but not quite late. I determined to use the time to unpack and settle in. However, I did not wish to appear presumptuous, or as though I expected a more permanent arrangement, even if I did, so instead of taking out my things and folding them on the headboard of my bed, I only retrieved a music notation book from my bag. There was a stub of pencil habitually stuck into my hair, and, reaching back, I slipped it out and made myself comfortable on the bed. Flipping open the book, I scanned the few pages that were scribbled on with words and notes—the gipsy songs of my childhood days. At that moment, I would have given ten years of my life for a guitar.

It would be time for supper soon, and I fully intended to leave to opera house in search of sustenance, but I wanted to write something. It had been months since I had last written anything, even a dancing song to perform on the streets to attract the coins of passers-by. As I struggled to form music-notes in my head and concrete them on the page, Meg returned.

'Are you going out for supper tonight? I am afraid my mother and I have been invited to the house of friends, or I would offer to accompany you to one of my favourite taverns.'

'Think nothing of it, mademoiselle.'

'Meg.'

'I'll be fine. I have been in Paris some times before, and have never lacked for anything.'

'Have you money enough for supper?'

'Yes.' I still had two louis d'or left over from my previous employment, as well as a pocketful of small change.

'Very well. I must go now, but the doors lock at midnight, so be certain that you are not left without.'

'I do not make a habit of late nights before an audition.'

'Oh, but I can hear in your speech that you've a lovely voice.'

'A heroine must needs be a soprano. I'm afraid I've had better luck auditioning for male roles, as a tenor. That is what I have done in the past.'

Meg giggled. 'Imagine that! A female hero. I can quite nearly picture you in a cravat and coat, with a crossbow under your arm, singing William Tell in rich tenor tones, without the Palais even knowing you were a woman!'

'Yes. That is an amusing thought.'

'Well, I must be going. Feel free to roam the opera house. All the dancers are out for the evening, so it will be empty. If you'd prefer...'

'I will be fine, thank you.' I did not wish to be rude, but the girl could positively not stop talking.

'Goodbye, then.' she smiled charmingly and flounced out of the room.

I sighed and slipped back down onto the bed, where I wracked my brains for music before leaving two hours later to find supper.

The streets of Paris had always held an allure for me, especially after the sun went down, and despite my unfamiliarity with the area, I managed to find a small, respectable restaurant called _Chez Rousseau_, ate a modest meal for sixteen sous, and returned to the Palais Garnier, where I forced myself to fall immediately asleep.

Christine de Chagny twisted her hands worriedly as her carriage rolled toward her own personal purgatory. The Palais Garnier, for three months now, since that terrible night of the scorpion and grasshopper, had been a sort of shadowy vista upon which she had not dared to encroach her person. She and Raoul had been blissfully married for two of those months, and she had very nearly thought that nothing could possibly mar their happiness.

Though a request letter from M. Richard was not precisely the end of the world, Christine still did not like the idea of returning to the opera house while the loss of her Angel was still so raw.

When the carriage stopped, the footman helped her descend the vehicle's steps. She hesitated only briefly before pushing open the doors and walking through. She knew she would find M. Mercier, M. Rémy, and this mystery tenor in the theatre itself, so she headed down the familiar halls and corridors before arriving in the seating pit.

It had been remodeled as well as renovated, with differences in decoration and measurement, from what she could see on stage. Several maids were walking up and down the aisles, sweeping and mopping the steps and making certain the area was decluttered. The managers, MM. Richard and Moncharmin were sitting high in a box on the grand tier. They were simply there to hear the price the young tenor would demand, and cared nothing for his performance. In fact, their roles in the opera had been quite nearly nominal since the disappearance of the Ghost, and they left many of the administrative duties to clerks and lawyers, and the brunt of management fell now to Mercier.

Christine glanced up toward the stage.

Mercier and Rémy were standing on the stage beside a slight young man. He wore black boots that rose to his knees and tight doeskin trousers, a white cravat, and a black shirt. Around his waspish waist was tied a wide sash. It was multicoloured, finely embroidered with mind-swirling patterns, here and there the image of a horse, a fire, an elephant, or a tree.

The youth himself was a mere three or four inches shy of six feet, with unusually long, jetty black hair and an ashen complexion. His eyes were lurid emerald, like daggers waiting to be drawn, and from a high, peculiarly curved forehead descended a sharp nose, slightly hooked at the bridge, but with a slender, predator's air. His mouth was full, but set in a resolute line, his long, elegant cheekbones and slender jaw giving him girlish charm. Christine risked a glance at his hands. They were wide-palmed, with long, tapering fingers. Artist's hands. He had noticed her the moment she had walked in the room—that she was certain of, but it was not until she had cleared her throat that he, Mercier, and Rémy acknowledged her.

He made a low, portentous bow. 'Mme. la Comtesse,' he murmured, in a low, soothing voice like honey wine, 'I have heard that you were beautiful, but this...this has taught me never to take the word of another.' she blushed as he bowed again. Mercier shot him a look and descended from the stage to sit in the audience. Rémy remained downstage.

'I will sing the part of Pierre Abélard from _Abélard and Heloise_, act four, scene two.'

Christine's eyes widened. She knew that Mercier's auditions were stringent, but that aria was one that challenged even the most seasoned of tenors. 'Are you certain?'

The resolute and wordless nod from the young tenor was confident and she could have sworn that he was looking into, rather than at her.

'It is a soliloquy of the highest possible range. If you are looking for a tenor to fill in for Carolus, you should put him in less taxing...'

'We are looking for someone to fill M. Fonta's shoes, full-time. At the Palais Garnier, we do not hire fill-ins.' Mercier replied coldly.

'You hired me.'

'I know. You were not to be a fill-in.'

The youth was still standing at ease on the stage, his hands behind his back. He seemed very confident for one whose voice was about to be tested to its extremities. Mercier motioned to him. 'You may begin, M. Avalbane.'

Fallon took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and, suppressing her smile, opened her mouth and poured out the long-hoarded contents of her soul. Her rich, deep voice had something of the mournful undertones of the cello in it, and the wild, dark strains of gipsy lore she had hidden in herself over the years. With her eyes screwed shut, she belted the song out, running every scale from the lowest and darkest to the most sonorous, lightest, most passionate touches of breath upon the air. When the piece was over, she glanced out at Mercier and the Countess.

Gabriel Mercier had seen many tenors in his day, but none had the quality of this girl. She had a darker, more achingly suppressed emotion than any male singer, as well as a smoother, more sonorous voice. As for Christine, she could not think. Her breath caught in her throat, and she _knew_. This was the man to bring the Palais Garnier back its fame. There was something about this Avalbane that recalled to mind her Angel. Of course, she could scarcely imagine this beautiful youth to be as violent or mysterious, but he was at least as passionate.

She stood, and walked toward the stage. 'You are talented, monsieur. I recommend you highly to MM. Richard and Moncharmin, and should they care to take you on as the new leading tenor, I would come to see you every night you perform.' Fallon smiled, and contemplated the young woman before her. She was small-boned, something like two inches shorter than herself, but flaunting the feminine curves that the Irish girl hid. Her golden hair was intricately arrayed, and her eyes were bright, and blue, with an eager hope which Fallon had seen before in the eyes of orphans who had been just adopted. The Countess was adorable, and her lyrical voice soothed. She had a very coy smile, with deep dimples in each rosy cheek, her Cupid's bow lips parting to reveal ivory teeth, complemented by her slightly upturned nose, the girlish smattering of freckles which still lingered upon the fresh, white complexion.

Fallon bowed as Mercier gave her an arch look. 'So it is settled,' the manager said, his stern voice jolting her from the study of the young Comtesse, 'You shall have a place to live here, and to study music. You will star in our first performance of the season, a production of Alexandre Dumas' _Count of Monte Cristo_, by the Italian composer Dominic Voretti.'

'Thank you, messieurs, madame. I have no words with which to praise your great kindness.'

'I have no words with which to praise your great talent, monsieur,' Christine was delighted to have salvaged so riveting an experience from so dreaded an expedition. 'You must meet my husband.'

'I have heard M. le Comte is a great connoisseur of the arts. He must be, to have secured so beautiful a chanteuse for his bride.'

Christine blushed, failing to catch the subtle irony in the other singer's voice. 'Yes, Raoul adores the Palais. Perhaps, if he takes to you, and you become all the rage, he will consent to again setting foot in the Palais Garnier.' she smiled at him charmingly before recalling to herself that she was a married woman, and, as such, no longer free to flirt with every pretty man that crossed her path. 'Well, I must be going. M. Avalbane, will you do me the honour of having supper with my husband and me this Sunday?'

'I would be devastated in the best possible way were I invited, Madame.'

'You are. See that you are not in absence, or I do not believe I could ever forgive you, despite your lovely voice. Seven o'clock, Sunday evening, monsieur, at number eight, Rue St. Antoine, near the Pont Nôtre Dame.'

'You have my word that I will be present. Au revoir, Mme. la Comtesse.'

'Au revoir. MM. Mercier, Rémy, always a pleasure.'

Christine turned, and, waving to the managers, disappeared. Mercier allowed herself a wry smile, walking back onto the stage. 'Were you truly a man, I should keep you away from the dancers on account of your ruthless charm.'

'Monsieur,' Fallon blushed, 'I am an entertainer. My job is to charm.'

'Of course. But you must have made quite the impression on the countess, for she not only praised you highly, but also invited you to her famous Sunday night dinner party. She has one every other week, and only the lions of society and art are ever invited.' Rémy murmured thoughtfully.

'And you, Mercier? What do you think?'

'You've a role, haven't you?' Mercier allowed himself a smile.

Fallon laughed boisterously, the tones bouncing off the acoustics of the stage in hollow echoes. 'So I have, monsieur, so I have.'

'You may go now. Your days will be relatively free, until next week, when we begin rehearsals. However, I will begin sending a vocal trainer to you, that you may be ready for the rehearsals when they begin.'

'Thank you, monsieur.' Fallon bowed, and left the room.


	2. Raoul

Chapter Two: Raoul

Over the following five days, I was gradually absorbed into the life of the Palais Garnier. My hours were filled with vocal practice with my teacher, a gentle-mannered elderly man by the name of Jean-Denis Beaumont, exploration of the fascinating opera house, and a flurry of new faces. I had begun writing songs again, for the first time in months. They were nothing grand, as the last time I had written, the strains of music that came from my soul had been the whimpering of a lovesick child. But now, the wild, rollicking strums of the gipsy dances that influenced me so strongly came out predominantly in the music I wrote, causing the dancers to shriek in delight and bound about the room. I had taught them a few steps from the dances I knew, which the original Romany had taught me, and they had excelled, causing me within a few minutes of teaching them the steps to feel like a worm amongst prancing butterflies.

Despite my initial trepidation at being amongst so many metropolitan ladies when my own life had been spent in the provincialities of various countries, I became fast friends with many of them, and they all seemed greatly fascinated by my multicultural heritage.

Mercier had suggested that it would be best if I put on a pretense of being a man, or rather, that we should simply not mention my gender, or correct people when they assumed I was a man by seeing me on stage. In this case, should the Palais's popularity decrease, we might resuscitate it by revealing my gender. He had made no concrete stipulations, and we agreed that should I feel it necessary, that I should reveal myself whenever I saw fit, to whomever I wished.

Though nearly everyone within the Palais knew, the thought of intrigue delighted them, and they tacitly promised to hold their tongues. It rather became a joke to the dancers, that I should go about in men's clothing (of which I was in no short supply), and when I walked into the dormitory in my trousers and cravat, they all shrieked and joked about the presence of a man in their bedroom.

Signora Carlotta Giudicelli refused to return to the Palais, being a superstitious Spaniard, and believing the haunting of the opera house to be the cause of her famous 'co-ack!' However, she disseminated the word amongst the singers she knew that the Palais Garnier was in need of a cast, and was planning a production by Dominic Voretti. That name itself was enough to send a maelstrom of singers our way, including Mme. Hyacinthe Renais, a widow with two small children ages eight and six to support. The temptation of the high opera salary, including room and board for herself and her children, over a textile factory was far too much to resist, and she had been hired straightaway. She had a beautifully matured soprano, and had become something of a matron in the opera house.

Besides her, an elderly baritone by the name of Christophe Vilette had also applied for re-employment by the Palais Garnier. Apparently, some eight years ago, he had been forcibly retired by order of the Phantom, subsequent to his development of a dangerous pulmonary disease. He had been given a substantial severance, and was still fairly well off, but he had spent the past four years in Canada, and, according to every doctor he had consulted, was now free of any lung problems. His return to the Palais Garnier, and his place on the bill had ensured that there would be a substantial turnout at the début.

Beside these, there were Ruggerio Lorenzi, an old friend, and, it was whispered, a previous lover of Carlotta. He was a charming man of perhaps thirty-six, wealthy and irresistible to most women. I found him both a point of immense amusement and a worthy darts opponent.

Lucien Bartholémy was a fair-haired and silver-voiced young tenor, a greenhorn who wanted nothing more than to prove his worth and become a star. He was far too serious-minded to waste his time charming the lovely young dancers of the Palais, and chose to inhabit a small student's flat some blocks away. Though at first he protested not receiving the leading role, Mercier was adamant on keeping me as Dantès, and M. Bartholémy was kept in the dark concerning my gender.

Argus Koehler, a beetle-browed, jolly German baritone, had been called in on an old favour owed to M. Moncharmin, and had brought with him his charming young niece, Arabella Gustave, to either understudy Mme. Renais, or to provide a soprano for a supporting role.

There were also several other singers, relatively well known, who had taken the opportunity to step up from their small-time plays at day-theatres to sing in the re-opening début of the Palais Garnier as chorus.

Though initially the opera was rather strapped for cash, Mme. de Chagny had made it abundantly clear that should we need any assistance, we had but to ask. Her husband, apparently, was not so certain that the Palais Garnier merited such looseness from his purse, but the good Comtesse had promised that once he had met me at their gala that he should very precipitously alter his ideas.

I tied my cravat meticulously, and smoothed my cuffs. I had not worn this particular suit in some time, but I felt that the situation merited it. After all, I would be in select company. It was a costume of Grecian make, black silk, brocaded at the shoulders and cuffs in thread-of-gold, red, and blue, tailored precisely to my specifications, concealing the brace that held my breasts in check and giving the illusion that my shoulders were a hair wider. I hoped that the foreign cut and flavour would encourage my already well-cultivated aura of artistic enigma.

I would be escorting Meg to the dinner, as well, as she was invited, and it would not do to pay for two fiacres across town, simply in the name of propriety. MM. Richard and Moncharmin knew that tongues would wag, concerning their star tenor and a young ballerina appearing at a society event in company, but they were not afraid of scandal, and the move would only make the de Chagnys' interest in me grow, that Mme. Giry would entrust her daughter to my care. She was ready, sitting silently on her bed across from me as I buttoned my cufflinks. I glanced over at her, and she smiled. 'I never thought,' she murmured, 'that it took so much effort for a man to dress.'

I grinned back at her. 'Mlle. Giry,' I bowed in the most chivalric manner I could, 'you've no idea.'

'It is well worth the effort; you look so dashing that should I not know you are a woman, and my friend, I should be utterly smitten. As it is, you are beautiful.'

'Thank you, Meg,' I offered her my arm, 'you are looking particularly fetching yourself.' As she slid her arm through mine, I said, as an aside, 'I certainly hope I shall not have to defend your honour from some odious old aristocrat looking to add a notch to his bedpost, yes?'

'Oh, Fallon!' she exclaimed, 'Has maman cautioned you against me? I am afraid she thinks I am an inveterate flirt!'

'I am to keep my eyes open for you,' I confided, 'but your mother trusts you.' We made our way down to the front doors of the Palais, and hailed a fiacre from the gaggle of cabs which stood habitually across the street. 'Number eight, Rue St. Antoine!' I called, and the driver immediately whipped up his horse. I hoped that the ride would be relatively silent, giving me a chance to collect my nerves and steel myself for the character I was to portray, but Meg interrupted my thoughts with a nervous burst of laughter. 'Good Lord, Meg, whatever do you mean by laughing in that manner?' I demanded.

'Oh, you looked so pensive, I was afraid, for a moment that you were changing into a different person. I could not think of anything to say, so I laughed. I beg your pardon.'

'I am turning into a different person, Meg. I must. If I go to this gala as Fallon Avalbane, the Irish girl who can sing in rather low tones, I shall be laughed off, and the Palais will never gain the support of the Comte de Chagny. Certainly, Christine will do what she can, but to befriend an aristocrat is always a difficult thing. I must be Fallon Avalbane, the dashing and enigmatic tenor from nowhere in particular, who has seen the pyramids of Egypt and thinks they are amusing, who has danced with the gipsies of Spain, and thought it bracing, who has sung with the Sirens of Italy and found it to be a decent challenge, who has fought beside the Pashas of Greece and found their guns far too ornate for battle. I must shock and please, mystify and charm.'

She was silent for a moment, then raised her doe eyes to mine. They were wide with excitement. 'Have you really done all those things?'

'Why, yes.' I shrugged.

'And did you really find them so disenchanting and ordinary as that?'

'I assure you, Meg, when one is doing great things, one never really thinks about it in the heat of the moment. Things happen, and it is only when one collects one's thoughts and reflects, that it is truly a surprise that one could have lived through such things.'

'Then you are really that great enigma that you are preparing yourself so hard to be.' she smiled. 'And you make conversation with me, rather than being so dreadfully distant.'

I was tempted to smile, but I had decided that she could not understand the fine art of human deception, or the favour her mother had asked of me. 'There is obviously something you wish to tell me. What is it?'

'Well,' she compressed her lips, and I could see that I had made the right call, 'I was today speaking with Mlle. Gustave, and she says that M. Bartholémy is upset that you maintain the role of Dantès when he is clearly the better singer.'

'M. Bartholémy has never heard me sing, and has scarcely heard me speak. He will realize the error of error of prejudice tomorrow, when our rehearsals begin.'

'Rehearsals, of course...' she blinked. 'Have you memorized your part, then?'

'Not quite. I have gotten an overview of the role, and I have read the opera several times. Singing it will be an entirely different story, however. M. Beaumont has promised to sit in on rehearsals, however, for as long as I might need him. He says I have made significant progress, and that there is scarcely anything to be desired of my voice but that I better remember the mechanics of it all, and that I rest my voice as is needed. I imagine that I shall not be speaking during the days between our performances, once we begin the show itself.'

'No, I'd imagine not. Signora Carlotta never spoke unless she was on stage, or haggling with the managers over her stipend. Mlle. Gustave is so much different. I rather like her.'

'She is agreeable enough.'

'Oh, Fallon, that is so precisely the sort of response that I should expect from M. Bartholémy, not of you!'

'And what sort of response would you expect from me?'

'Whenever we speak of people, you rather enumerate how they charm you, and how they repulse you. You never so casually dismiss them.'

'I am not dismissing Mlle. Gustave, I simply don't wish to discuss her.'

'Well, why not?'

'Don't lets argue, Meg.' I sighed. 'I must be in character. I cannot be your bunkmate at this gala.'

'I see.' her lower lip trembled, but she somehow contrived to bring her emotions under check and simply pout. 'You must be in character.'

'Meg, don't be angry.'

'Oh, of course not. I suppose I should be in character, as well. Would you like me to flirt with you?'

I rolled my eyes. 'I am not attempting to insult you. What do you wish, that I discuss Mlle. Gustave? She is charming. She is lovely. She grates on my nerves, on occasion, because she is a gossip, but what can one expect from a girl in a strange element attempting to establish herself in her immediate society?' she lifted her shoulders in a careless shrug. 'You aren't listening to me, Meg.'

'I am.'

'You're pouting.'

'No, I am not.'

She sulked for a moment, as I contemplated my options. I could apologize as a friend, or endure her wrath for weeks hence. It was rare that one could anger Meg, but when one did, it was over something rather petty, and she refused to forgive unless instant remuneration was made. I took her hand. 'I apologize, Meg. I have been insensitive.' Her protruding lower lip pursed a little. 'Your lower lip is sweeping the floor of the cab, Meg.' she compressed her lips. 'You know, if you smile, your face is liable to crack and fall apart.' her mask of coolness wavered for a moment, and I pressed my advantage while I could. 'Besides which, you've a good face, and the face beneath it might not be so comely. It probably has a beard.'

Her concentration on being upset with me broke, and she giggled. 'Oh, you are insufferable!' she shrieked, and cuffed my arm lightly. 'You had better take care of me.'

'If I see you alone, I shall be certain to appropriate you to my company.'

'You promise you will not run off with Signor Lorenzi to discuss your last game of darts?'

'I promise that should I see you without, or in awkward circumstances, I shall rescue you. After all, that is what Fallon Avalbane, the enigmatic tenor, would do for his lady-friend.'

She giggled again. 'You would have made a positively irresistible man. Nature has made a mistake.'

'I have trained myself to be like this, Meg. I was not born so.'

'And why did you train yourself so?' she pressed.

'Necessity.'

I hoped I would not have to go through an explanation, and Providence favoured me, as the fiacre stopped, and the driver called out, 'Number eight, Rue St. Antoine!'

I helped Meg to descend from the cab, and paid the driver. Then, taking her on my arm, I turned toward the tall town-house that stood before us, its brightly gilt number '8' standing like a beacon on the door.

'Here we are. Do not be angry with anything Fallon Avalbane does,' I grinned, and she smiled back up at me. It was an ironic outing—two young girls, one posing as a man, intruding, as it were, upon polite society, in an attempt to garner favour with their hostess' husband, and neither of us would do it by either flirting or promises of particular favours, which were all the traditional ways a young actress or dancer might gain the attention of an aristocrat.

As we entered, the butler took our coats and names, and I led Meg down the hall into a throng of multicoloured dresses and solemn black suits. Before we could even register some of the faces we knew, the Comtesse had Meg by the arm and was greeting us warmly. 'Oh, Meg! And M. Avalbane, it is so charming to see you again! You look lovely, Meg. Oh, come meet my husband, M. Avalbane. I have told him all about you, and he is most anxious to make your acquaintance.'

'It would be an honour to meet M. le Comte,' I murmured, scrambling to assess my thoughts and to control my reactions. I forced a smile that I knew would be effective in calming Meg and putting the Comtesse at her ease. She escorted us to a corner of the ballroom where a tall young man stood, with fair auburn hair and eager blue eyes. He was wearing an unimpeachable black suit, with a gold waistcoat and a freshly-cut white rose in his lapel. The moment I saw him, my heart leapt into my throat, and I made an attempt to walk by him, but it seemed as though the Comtesse were leading us to him. As we approached him, he reached for her.

'Ma hereuse,' he murmured into her ear, 'do not leave me without again. It was terribly awkward to handle Mme. de Jacquemin and her cousin on my own.'

The Comtesse laughed, a lyrical sound, and pressed his hands. 'My love, come greet Meg and M. Fallon Avalbane, the Palais Garnier's new leading tenor.'

The Comte's eyes widened as they lit on me. 'M. Avalbane,' his voice was tremulous. I nearly grinned. He had always been the worst actor. 'I was hoping I would meet you.' he smiled warmly at Meg, and kissed her hand.

I bowed, and pasted on my most modest smile. 'No doubt she has been speaking to you of our brief meeting in the Palais Garnier, some four days ago, when I sang the part of Pierre Abélard for my audition at that esteemed institution?' Meg glanced at me sideways as the volley of words slid from my tongue. She had never seen me in a formal situation, and I hoped to God that it would not alter our friendship now she knew I could act as much an overblown snot as the next star tenor.

'Indeed. She was much impressed with your voice, as well as your person, in the short time you conversed, that she has made me promise to be as enchanted with you as she seems to be.'

'And I am utterly enchanted,' sighed the Comtesse from her husband's arm. I suppressed a smirk. The woman was something of a flirt for all her modest airs and wedded bliss.

'As am I. I must admit, I was astonished when I was informed that your "little Sunday supper" was to be a gala affair such as attracts the very best of noble society.'

'Well, it is something of a tradition in the de Chagny family, to host a little party at least every month.'

'At the very least, it brightens up the hours spent during mass.' the Comtesse laughed.

I bowed and smiled, and Meg gave a little nervous giggle, such as the one I had reprimanded her for in the cab. I slid my arm from hers and took her hand, instead. The Comtesse's eyes widened at the mark of intimacy, and no doubt her mind was racing as to my affiliation with Meg, and how we might have become so close in so short a time. 'I don't suppose, M. le Comte, that you have been back to the Palais Garnier since your marriage.'

'No. Christine has been back, on the occasion that you met her, but I am afraid I have not yet been able to bring myself to face it.'

'But you will, undoubtedly, attend the début performance of _Monte Cristo_, will you not?'

'I am sure to,' the Comtesse said, 'but I cannot speak for Raoul.'

'Perhaps,' his eyes darkened, and, though they were trained on me, they were focused beyond, as though they were looking straight through my skull. 'It is all a matter of how well I esteem your voice, monsieur.'

'And how are you at all to rate it if you have never heard it, M. le Comte?'

'Raoul, please.' Christine chided. He laughed, and extended his hand, as though to apologize for embarrassing me, and I slid my hand out of Meg's to shake it. His palm was moist and soft, and the calluses on mine scraped roughly over it. 'And why do you not sing to us now? I am certain that should it be all Christine says it is, the lot of my guests will have only good things to say about you, and undoubtedly attend your _Monte Cristo_, as well.'

Meg looked expectantly up at me. This was the chance Mercier had asked me to look out for. To display the talent of the Palais Garnier, to give them a taste of what they could expect in our opening performance, to whet their appetites for more—well, it was good publicity to say the very least. I bowed. 'If you would allow, M. le Comte—Raoul—I should love to.'

'Please. It will at least give us something to discuss during supper.' he hooked his wife on his arm, and I did the same with Meg, and followed him to where a grand piano and a string quartet were being played for background music. He touched the pianist on the shoulder, and signaled to the quartet. All fell silent as he tapped his finger against his glass of champagne. 'Attention! Attention!' he called. 'We have here, in our presence, the star tenor of the grand Palais Garnier. He has just arrived in Paris a short time ago, and I have requested that he sing a selection from the Palais's new production of Alexandre Dumas' _Count of Monte Cristo_, to whet our appetites for what is to come.'

There was a general applause, and I bowed, my teeth gritted. Now that it came down to it, I realized that this was the last thing I wanted to do, in front of Meg, the Comtesse, and her beautiful husband, who was, as of yet, pretending not to recognize me. I would be certain to repay him in kind as soon as I could.

'I will sing a part from a dialogue in which the titular character, the Count, speaks to the young nobleman Franz d'Epinay, and taunts him after a friendly manner .' Meg knit her brow, but remained silent. She knew that her mother would approve of the choice of song, but I could tell that she was as nervous as I. As the noise of the scattered applause died down, I took a breath, and let it out on a low gush of notes.

'S'accomodi, Signor, please make yourself at home.

'My lair, you see, is your lair, too, but I sit on the throne.

'Put yourself at ease, Signor, my name is of no consequence.

'But you, Signor, you must abandon common sense.

'For I am Sinbad the Sailor, and this is my dark world.

'I am a man who dares to tread where nighttime fears to go.' I glanced about myself, to gauge a reaction. The Comtesse was smiling silently to herself; I was making her dinner party a success. Meg's hands were clasped together in silent prayer, and Raoul's mouth was hanging open. Good. He deserved to be dumbfounded. I began to sing again.

'You, Signor, style yourself Aladdin of the Lamp.

'I say, Signor, you are a fool, to think you can enchant

'What can never be enchanted, surprised, or taken aback.

'You see, Signor, I have all the wisdom that you lack.

'For I am Sinbad the Sailor, and this is my dark world.

'I am a man who dares to tread where nighttime fears to go.'

I ended on a high note, my diaphragm forcing the air out through my lips, my chest heaving with the effort to regain the oxygen I had expended. It was only when I felt the pressure from Meg seizing my hand that I realized I had closed my eyes. I glanced at the Comtesse, and looked for Raoul, but he was gone.

There were several compliments, and many people, whose names I did not even know, begging me to come sing at their suppers. I rolled my eyes. Good Lord, these aristae! I smiled and charmed my way through the ordeal, and allowed Meg, for her own dear sake, to be torn away from me by the Comtesse. The torture, however, was cut short by a servant announcing the arrival of suppertime. Some giggling baron's daughter somehow attached herself to my arm and was attempting to tell me how different I was from all the other tenors she had met, as though she were in the height of artistic society. I believe I may have expended all the 'is that so's' that were in me at her inane babble, and managed to smile as though I were flattered.

As I made my way to the dining hall, I caught the eye of Ruggerio Lorenzi. I knew he would be there, but his sudden presence was a reassuring jolt. I excused myself from the arm of the girl and headed toward him. 'Signor Lorenzi!' I called. He grinned at me, and I found comfort in the knowledge that he knew both my gender and my mission at the dinner.

'Ah, M. Avalbane,' he headed for me, and pressed my hands in the most calming manner. 'I heard your exquisite tenor, and had hoped that you would allow me to accompany you. Alas, I am afraid I was not quick enough to offer my support.'

'It would have been welcome, Ruggerio. I had thought myself prepared for such a stunt, but it seems as though M. Mercier's confidence in me was very nearly misplaced.'

'Not so, not so! You were wonderful. Half the people here do not know the difference, anyhow, between a contralto and a tenor.' he laughed, and his allusion to my true range very nearly made me blush. 'You are trembling, Fallon,' he murmured, _sotto voce_. 'I am very nearly ready to whisk you out of the place and set off a scandal, but then who would escort poor little Mlle. Giry home?'

'Ruggerio,' I grinned. 'I am not the poor fading Prima Donna you expect me to be. I was simply...' set back on my heels by the appearance of a man I never expected to see again? No, I could not confide in him. I trusted him enough to shoot darts with him, and to tell him I was a woman, but no, I would not test the mettle of a casual friendship with any new revelations.

'It is the first time you have performed any selection from _Monte Cristo_. It was a leap of faith on your part to sing even so brief a part from so unfamiliar an opera. I will be certain to give M. Mercier glowing reviews.'

'Thank you for your faith, Ruggerio.' I was tempted to slip my arm through his before I realized how awkward that might appear, and how gauche a mistake it would be. I turned to look for Meg, but the dining hall was crowded with people. I made my way to the seating chart and searched for my name. I was seated across from Meg and the Comtesse, with the Comte on my right side, at the head of the table, and a young woman by the name of Desirée de Cédolin, on my right. She was lovely, a fresh-faced girl with light chestnut hair and enough sense to keep her blue eyes from staring. For that reason alone, I struck up a conversation with her, and we were soon discussing the layout of the newly-renovated Palais Garnier.

As the meal was served, on ornate, richly-gilt platters, I stole a glance at Raoul. He was gazing at his wife with adoration in his eyes, and my fist clenched impulsively beneath the table. I wrestled my response under control and instead turned my attention to the Comtesse. "Mme. la Comtesse, M. Rémy has told me time and again how he wished he could do away with the flies all together, as they created a prime opportunity for sabotage. I wonder whether you believe we might, as some say, pull off a show without backdrops, or with brief intermissions between scenes during which the backdrops might be manually arranged from a floor level.'

'I have never known much about scenery,' she shrugged a beautiful shoulder, 'but I know that whatever the circumstance, the capital directors at the Palais will bring things off to perfection.'

'You have much confidence in your former employers.' I accepted the cup of wine offered to me by a servant, but drank sparsely. There was a double reason for not indulging in drink. For one, it would not do to be damaging my throat with astringent alcohol, and secondly, I wanted to be clear-headed for the remainder of the night. The sudden revelation of Raoul as being the Comte de Chagny was a shock that I had not entirely recovered from, and I had no intention of obscuring my better judgment by drowning my bewilderment in wine.

I was still speaking with Desirée about the new décor of the opera house when I heard Raoul excuse himself to his wife, and rise from the table. As he did so, a note slipped into my hand. So he did recognize me, after all. Well, this wouldn't do. She had hoped that the changes she had made to her character and style would mislead him. But then again, he had broken through her façades before. I unrolled the note beneath the table. It read, 'Library. Down the hall I go through, it will be the third door to your left.'

I determined to wait a few moments before leaving, as it would appear strange should the Comte and I disappear at the same time, but after a few moments, I rose and inquired from a domestic where the privies might be. She directed me to them, and I headed down the hall after Raoul.

I found the library easily enough, and stopped before the hermetically sealed door to straighten my cravat and cuffs. I would not appear before him as though I had hurried down a hall simply to see his face, which is, of course, what I had done. Once satisfied that I was capable of appearing before Raoul with calmness and dignity, I turned the knob and pushed open the door.

He was sitting in a chaise lounge, calmly thumbing through a volume of Voltaire. My brows drew together before I caught myself, but I managed to smooth my forehead quickly. Without turning, he murmured, 'I was surprised to see you, Llewellyn.'

'That isn't my name. Not anymore.'

'So I gather.' he paused. 'What are you doing here?'

'Finding work.'

'You haven't come after me, then?' he rose with a nervous movement, and there was something rather like fear in his eyes. I smiled to think that I could still inspire such a sentiment.

'I would have come for you a very long time ago, if I had wished.'

'In other words, I really didn't mean all that much to you, anyhow.'

I shrugged. 'I had decided that you did not deserve to.'

'Well.'

'I assume you wish to discuss what...went wrong?'

He laughed weakly, and ran his hands through his hair. 'I know what went wrong. Everything went wrong. Philippe called me home when I didn't want to come back, and you decided your life meant more than mine.'

'That is certainly not how it went, and you know it.' I forced my voice level. I am afraid it came out rather cold and unfeeling.

'I do not see you correcting my assumption.'

'I am correcting it.'

'Do you want to tell me what precisely happened in your mind, then?'

'This isn't really the place to discuss it.'

'Of course. What if my wife were to walk in?'

'She wouldn't be perturbed in the least. I think she adores me.'

'Getting ahead of yourself in your amorous conquests, aren't you?' he allowed himself to smile bitterly.

'If only she knew,' I laughed. 'She should probably request M. Moncharmin to fire me.'

'I thought you were not willing to put yourself through this again. This façade you put on for every show, it is not healthy for you.'

'The only name you have ever known me by is that of a man. Let this new name be the identity you now think of me by. There is no reason for one false name not to supersede another.'

'And will you give the lie to me again?'

'I never lied to you. I simply omitted certain details concerning my person until I was certain you could...digest them. That is all. Besides, you speak as though I was the one to do the betraying.'

His mouth opened, then closed, and he pursed his lips. 'You have got me there. But we were so very young.'

'Yes, we were. But I am afraid we made a far deeper impression upon one another than either of us is willing to admit.'

'What is there to admit?'

'Once upon a time, I fancied myself to love you.'

'What?' he drew back suddenly, paling.

'No, no. I had no romantic affection for you, and never will, but I loved you. You were my sanity, after all.'

'And you were my edge on adventure.' he smiled, genuinely this time. 'What will you do now?'

'I will sing at the Palais Garnier, and when it comes time, I will reveal myself to the public. There will be a notorious scandal, and I will be the more celebrated for it.'

'But...'

'But nothing, Raoul.' I set my mouth into a resolute line. He sighed.

'You always were far too stubborn for your own good, Llew.'

'And you were always a terrible bore when it came to staging things. Always mucking things up. Ridiculous.'

'Well, now that we have made our peace,' he extended his hand to me. I hesitated for a moment before pressing it warmly, 'let us never discuss that awful day we parted.'

I nodded. 'I should not like to have to explain myself. It is enough that we shall be friends again.'

He nodded, then paused as he withdrew his hand. 'Let me ask you something, Llew,'

'Call me Fallon. Or M. Avalbane, in public. It is far more appropriate.'

'Of course. In time, I will be able to address you by your baptismal appellation again. But tell me, did Mercier appoint you to solicit my patronage for the Palais Garnier?'

'He told me at least to disseminate the knowledge of Voretti's _Monte Cristo_. I have done so. He also instructed me to be friendly with you and your wife, but perhaps that is only because she has so much esteem and friendship for your persons.'

'A shrewd answer. And M. Mercier is a shrewd man. We should return to supper, but there will be no end to the questions if we return together. People will wish to know of our previous acquaintance, most especially Christine.'

'I shall return first, and you come some minutes later.'

'Very well.' he agreed. As I turned to leave the library, he called my name softly. 'Yes?'

'Embrace me once,' he sighed, 'for the sake of our youth.'

I smiled and stepped into his arms, my head finding his shoulder as it had so well in times past. Had it really been four years? It seemed like only yesterday that we were smoking and shooting darts, whistling at women together and taking long rides into the countryside. After a few moments, I repulsed him softly. 'I must go. Meg will wonder after me.'

'Of course.' his smiled gleamed whitely in the candlelit room, and I backed slowly away, turning my back only when I had reached the door. After all, there was no reason to trust him implicitly after so many years.


	3. Rivalry

Chapter Three: Rivalry

_Haydée, my child, you are now free,_

_You are no longer bond to me._

_I give you all I have to offer,_

_For I am your friend and father._

The words of the verse slipped from my mouth as I gestured toward Arabella Gustave, who was playing the Grecian princess Haydée, one eye fixed on M. Auvray, our conductor, and the other on her. She sat on a couch and toyed with a prop narghile. Her brown eyes opened wide for her reply to the Count.

_Oh, good my Lord, what shall I do?_

_How could I leave from your side?_

_I love not any man but you,_

_You are my joy, I am your pride._

Her voice wavered on the final note, and Auvray's mouth tugged into a severe frown.

'Mlle. Gustave!' he snapped. 'Please. I understand your youth, and that this is your first role, but your uncle assured me you would have no trouble with your nerves.'

'It is not my nerves, good M. le Directeur,' she sighed. 'It is this costume. It is too tight round my stomach, and does not allow for the wind.'

'Well, then, you should have requested Mme. Beauvais to mend it. Perhaps you should change into something rather less restricting until it is taken care of. Go, go!' he waved her away, then turned to me. 'M. Avalbane, you are representing everything capitally—everything but the Count's affection for Haydée. Remember, she is eventually to be your bride—your new hope!'

I bowed. 'I shall keep that in mind, M. le Conducteur.' I replied deferentially, bowing my head. M, Auvrey was a stringent, but fair director. I appreciated his ear for music and his eye for acting. He had already told me that my characterization of the Count was unlike any opera portrayal he had ever seen, having more casual merit and natural grace.

'Certainment.' he snapped his fingers, and brought us all to attention. 'While she is gone, we shall have a moment for rest. I wish you all to take tonics and sit, and if she is not present in five minutes, we will resume without her.'

I heaved a sigh of relief, and turned toward M. Beaumont, who was, true to his word, sitting in on the rehearsal. As I approached him, he extended a thermos of hot ginger and honey tonic, infused with lemon peel. 'You are doing well, Fallon,' he said, as I poured myself a cup and sipped hesitantly from the spiced brew, 'you have but to support your lower notes, and sing from your whole body, from the tips of your toes to the furthest extremities of your hair.' Though such a measure was certainly exaggerated, I knew what he meant. I had a tendency to sing lower notes without enough vibrato, which had never presented any trouble on a carnival fairground, but which would never do when performing before hundreds of opera connoisseurs. I nodded.

'Of course.'

'Don't speak, don't speak. Rest your voice.' he chided, patting my arm absentmindedly. 'You are a garrulous one, child,' he chuckled, and shook his head. 'You will have trouble resting your voice between performances, once _Monte Cristo_ opens to the public, but it is a necessity, if you do not wish to callus your vocal cords.' I nodded. I knew the self-control involved with singing. As my tonic cooled, I drank more deeply of it, anxious for the soothing honey and cleansing ginger to take effect. As M. Beaumont clearly had nothing more to discuss with me, I rose and strode to the mirror to rearrange my hair, as it had undoubtedly come loose of its braid during practice. As I smoothed and rectified my appearance, Lucien Bartholémy crept up behind me.

'You are far too vain a peacock, M. Avalbane,' he hissed venomously, 'to be strutting into the role which is rightfully mine.'

I grinned at him in the mirror, not caring to turn and meet his eyes. 'M. Bartholémy, I auditioned first for the role, and it was given to me. I cannot help that you were late. Besides, the far less demanding part of Albert de Morcerf suits one who is less accustomed to singing professionally.'

'It is said that you have never sung professionally in the opera yourself! All you have ever done was sing in cheap theatres and fairgrounds!'

'And you, M. Bartholémy? Have you ever once before performed in an opera house as prestigious as the Garnier?' I did not mention the Venetian Opera. It would not do to have him researching the playbills for the name of Fallon Avalbane, as it would be absent.

He coloured, and was silent for a moment. 'That does not supersede the fact that a good Frenchman should come before a low-born Englishman in this production.'

'M. Bartholémy, I believe you are attempting to insult me by denouncing me as English. I plead not guilty. In fact, I would exacerbate the English alongside you, as I am Irish. Run along, now, monsieur, I have no time for your childish vendettas.'

'It is fortunate, monsieur,' he growled, 'that we are playing enemies. I believe I shall have no trouble portraying my utter disregard for your person.'

'I am sorry you feel that way. As for myself, I have nothing but the highest regard for your person.' I finally turned, and bowed. His eyes widened, and reflected surprise. I nearly sighed. Men, for all their strutting and posturing, were nothing more than Neanderthals squabbling over their caves. 'Perhaps, monsieur, there is a way I might rectify your opinion of me?'

'I...' he stammered for a moment, opening and closing his mouth.

'Perhaps, this evening, we might take a walk down to the Rue St. Michel, and sit down at a café to discuss your dislike for my person.'

'You surely mock me, sir.' he was turning purple. Oh, dear. He was one of those people who hold their breath when bewildered.

'Breathe, monsieur. No, I do not mock you. I simply make a rule of not gaining rivals unless it is absolutely necessary. There is no rivalry between us, monsieur. We are both in leading roles, and, despite your envy of my character, there is nothing you can do about it. Perhaps, if you are still satisfied with the Palais Garnier once this production has commenced, we will compete for the next titular role, but there is nothing we can do but sing our best. Do you not agree?'

'Of course, but—'

'Very good. I was certain you would see reason. Now, do you accept my invitation for dinner?'

'I suppose.' he regarded me narrowly, as though he expected a ruse.

'Capital.' I extended my hand. 'Will you also, then, agree to cease taunting me for the duration of rehearsal? You can be very distracting, you know.'

He blinked. 'I...I suppose.'

'My thanks, M. Bartholémy.' I bowed, and at this moment, M. Auvrey clapped his hands to call us all to order. 'I will meet you at the opera house doors at seven o'clock this evening, yes?'

'I will be there.' he agreed, and we turned our attention toward the Director.

'Order, order!' he called, like a judge in a courtroom of squabbling lawyers. 'Mlle. Gustave is indisposed, and must be present as her costume is altered. We will resume rehearsal from the top, at the opening scene. M. Lanier,' he called to Joseph Lanier, who was to play M. Morrel the Elder, 'please, attend. There is no reason for change of costume at the moment. From the top, please.' Lanier, a slight, doe-eyed baritone, stepped upstage. 'Cue...now.'

_I perceive,_ he began, his tones low and ominous, _a great misfortune. Wherefore does my ship enter with lowered sails and a sad approach?_

_A great misfortune, good M. Morrel!_ I called.

_I am afraid M. le Captaine took the brain-fever and has died!_

_My dear Dantès, oh, dear Dantès,_ he covered his eyes.

_A ladder, please, to go aboard!_

As the scene progressed, I watched Bartholémy out of the corner of my eye. He no longer was shooting baleful glares my way, instead, he was sitting in thoughtful silence beside M. Beaumont. I smiled and threw myself into song. Hopefully, by tomorrow, my troubles with this jealous boy would be over.


	4. Chez Bontecou

Chapter Four: Chez Bontecou

Arabella stood stock-still as Mme. Beauvais mended her costume. She wished she could have continued with the scene, as she was feeling particularly soulful this morning, and the way M. Avalbane was singing...she sighed. He was a beautiful man. The moment she had seen his face, her breath had tagged in her throat, and she had certainly not been able to speak when introduced. Her brow knit. He had not spoken to her outside rehearsals, or when absolutely necessary. Perhaps he had decided that she was an awkward and gauche provincial. Well, he seemed friendly enough with her dear uncle. They often joked together about the bizarre mannerisms of the French 'froggies.'

'Child!' Mme. Beauvais' voice snapped her from her girlish daisy-picking. 'Will you de-SIST sighing and making eyes at your absent suitors! You are altering your shape entirely too much.'

'Excuse me, madame.' she murmured, her soft German accent lending spine to her gentle voice. The frothy material of her costume rustled as the seamstress rearranged, cut, and mended in the correct places. The role of Haydée was a challenging one, simply because she was required to develop a character for her in less than five scenes. She had wished, for a moment, that she had auditioned for Mercédès, but then she recalled that Mme. Renais would have as few scenes as herself, and it was far simpler to make an older woman appear young than to make a young one appear old. Besides, she smiled secretly to herself, Edmond Dantès sails away with Haydée in the final scene, and not with Mme. de Morcerf. It was but a small triumph, but it entertained Arabella to think on it. She sighed again, earning a sharp poke from Mme. Beauvais.

'Child!' she remonstrated. Arabella laughed.

'Oh, madame, I beg your pardon.'

'I understand love, petite ange, but do not make my job more difficult for your sighs.'

Love? Arabella nearly laughed at the thought. No, certainly, she did not love M. Avalbane. He was simply a pretty youth. But he was so different from all the other men she had ever met, who scrambled over one another for her attentions, and would duel one another for a single glance from her. Yes, M. Avalbane was certainly cool and composed, but there was something else. He was an artist, and a singer. He could play darts with Signor Lorenzi in the same hour that he consoled Meg Giry about her toe-shoes acquiring a new tear. He was an accomplished musician, playing the piano, the guitar, the cello, viola, and violin, though he obviously favoured the guitar, from the wild gypsy rhythms he pounded out on it. He had been to countries Arabella had dreamt of since she was a child, and, she had once heard him relating adventures from his youth in the Grecian army to Meg Giry. Arabella's brows knit. He did spend a rather lot of time with Mlle. Giry. Perhaps they were lovers, or soon would be. No, it could not be. They were far too casual. Arabella had seen many close friends of opposite genders being labeled as lovers when they behaved after the fashion that Meg Giry and Fallon Avalbane did, and each time, the labels had turned out to be false.

Arabella crossed her fingers and hoped that was so with this one.

XXX

I was afraid that M Bartholémy might cancel our rendezvous in favour of rest at the end of the day, as I was certainly exhausted myself, but as he left the opera house, he tipped his hat to me. I was about returning to the dormitory when someone tapped me on the shoulder from behind. I turned. 'Fallon, you know, it is really far to early in the year to be having trysts with M. Bartholémy, considering, especially, that he is your rival?'

I turned, and caught Ruggerio Lorenzi inside the shoulder. He winced as my thumb ground into the sensitive nerve that runs just outside the muscle. My hand dropped as I registered his face. 'Ruggerio, that was ill-advised.'

'You should not be speaking.'

'Neither should you.'

'You forget, farfalla, that my part is only that of Fernand Mondego, who appears in only several scenes, whereas you are in nearly every one.'

'Touché.' I shrugged, and habitually fixed my cuffs and collar.

'But what was M. Bartholémy tipping his hat to you for?'

'I am going to dine with him tonight, in hopes of ironing out the difficulties in our _professional_ relationship.'

'Ah.' his sly smile was not helpful.

'I haven't time for this.' I narrowed my eyes, and turned my back to him again.

'Wait a moment, farfalla.' he caught me by the arm, and turned me back toward him. 'Be wary of M. Bartholémy, farfalla. He is jealous of you. A jealous man may be a monster. That you should know simply from the study of our opera.' He smiled roguishly. Damned if he doesn't know of my particular weakness for men with roguish smiles.

'Of course.'

'Promise me you will be circumspect.'

'Yes.'

'Monosyllabic answers are not terribly reassuring.' his smile gentled. 'You know, if you are done a misstep by this man, I shall have to take a vendetta after him, and besides the trouble of that, I shall have lost a reasonably good darts opponent.'

'I'll see you in the billiard-hall this weekend, Ruggerio.' I pressed his hands warmly, and he released me, with some reluctance. I hurried away from the opera house so as to avoid further run-ins with my colleagues, hailing a fiacre as I came to the doors. 'The Rue St. Michel!' I called out to the cabby, as I climbed into the buggy. The bumps in the road quieted my frayed nerves, and I closed my eyes to meditate, as I always do before a performance.

XXX

Lucien Bartholémy paced before _Chez Bontecou_, taking deep, calming breaths. Why ever Fallon Avalbane wanted to meet with him for was an astounding study in logical sciences, as there were ridiculous theorems and equations involved. He preferred not to contemplate them at this time, as the stress of his first major role in such a prestigious opera house as the rebuilt Garnier, as well as his studies in political science and the law, were taxing on his mind. Generally, his supper was a time to forget all these demands, and simply relax. It seemed as though he would only be adding to the list of tribulations now that he had company to entertain, and not any company, but that of the headlining tenor.

'M. Bartholémy, why so glum?' a cheerful voice behind him made him jump nearly out of his boots. Fallon Avalbane walked round to face him, and offered him a long-fingered hand. 'Delightful to see that you have kept our appointment. I should have been terribly put out had you decided to cancel. Shall we?' the other man's unusually long braid whipped over his shoulder as he turned. 'Dreadfully sorry to have kept you waiting, but the bloody fiacre driver would simply not whip up his horses until I appended twenty sous to his salary.' Fallon released a longsuffering sigh. 'Ah, the times in which we live, no, monsieur?' they walked up the outer staircase of the establishment, and seated themselves at a terrace table. Fallon motioned to a waiter, then leant forward on his forearms to look into Lucien's eyes. 'Doubtless you are wondering why I asked you here. Perhaps you wonder whether I have come to warn you against gossiping about me? Or to lead you into an alley and tell every rib in your body with my fists? You are nervous, monsieur. Please. Do not be. I have asked you here to speak with you, to mend the fences, so to speak. I understand you feel as though you are a superior performer to me?'

Lucien coloured. He was not accustomed to a rival behaving after quite this fashion. All the men he had ever set himself against were either rebuffed by his aggression, or had pushed back with equal opposition. Never had he been confronted by so cool and frank an appeal. 'I admit, M. Avalbane...'

'Please, you must call me Fallon. And I shall style you Lucien, unless you have any particular aversion to such freedoms. However, I suggest that, as we are to be working so closely in the future, that we be at our ease now. Do you not agree, Lucien?'

'Of course.' he nodded curtly. The waiter came round, and the two placed their orders. When Lucien asked for nothing to drink, Fallon requested a carafe of hot water and honey. 'You have done me the honour, monsieur—Fallon—of being frank with me. I will admit, I have spoken with some dancers and some singers rather harshly on your account.'

'You told Mlle. Gustave that I was an inbred scoundrel unfit for everything but to sing at the foot of a gallows with the crows, as at least my audience was already gibbeted, and would not be maligned by my croaking.'

Lucien's blush deepened. 'That, I admit...'

'Allow me, Lucien. I need not repeat every instance of slander, but suffice it to say, it has been embarrassing for me to come to the realization that so fine a gentleman would resort to such measures, especially when there is nothing to be gained.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'You have painted me in the victim's chair, _mon ami_ (and may I call you my friend?) by saying such things. Ladies, you know, are always concerned with the welfare of the underdog.'

'That is—'

'So you have only shot yourself in the foot by saying such things to the object of your affections. I would not be entirely surprised if she is halfway in love with me already.' Fallon's smile was that of complacent triumph. 'So indeed, my dear Lucien, I feel only the utmost pity and endearment toward you. You are benighted and maladroit in your tactics with the ladies.'

'How...'

'It is simple. I have seen you making doe-eyes over the lovely and talented young soprano. Perhaps you have loved her before you even came to the Garnier. That does not change the fact that you want her, whether it is her hand in marriage or her naked body in your bed—it matters little, but you must possess her. Yes?'

'I _beg_ your pardon!' Lucien slammed his fist down on the table. 'I do not know what you have garnered with your eyes or your spies concerning my affections for Mlle. Gustave, but I tell you that my intentions, if indeed, I have any, are entirely honourable.'

'No man's intentions are honourable concerning women. Marriage is simply another method of possession. You give them your name in exchange for their soul.'

'You are mistaken!'

'Please, Lucien. You must think me terribly gauche. You believe I am one of those baseborn men you loathe, who sample the charms of prostitutes in alleyways and murder rivals in the streets. No, my dear, no. Perhaps you believe I will present you with a method of conquest to win the heart of Mlle. Gustave. In that, you would be mistaken, as well. In fact, I shall do my utmost to protect her honour, but should she choose to take you as her lover, I cannot protest.'

'You smile.' Lucien avoided calling him 'monsieur,' but he did not, it is true, address him as 'Fallon.'

'And?'

'And you must have the lady as your mistress already, for you seem entirely unconcerned with the possibility of myself as a rival for her affections.'

Fallon laughed suddenly, a chilling bark that raised the hairs at the back of Lucien's neck. 'Oh, my dear. I did not realize how blind you are. How terribly, adorably, unutterably blind. Oh, my dear Lucien, my dear boy.'

'Do not call me a boy. I am several years your senior.'

'Three, if you will split hairs.' Fallon shrugged.

'Yes. Well. You have jumped to several conclusions tonight, and I will not be coddled or commandeered, or promised anything. You have said that you wish us to be friends.'

'Above all else at the moment.'

'Well then, start with becoming less of a loquacious ass, and I will think on it.' Fallon grinned. So, the boy had backbone. He pushed back his plate, and dug a cigarette out of his pocket, lighting it with a taper from the table. As he blew the acrid yellow smoke from his nostrils, he seemed to calm and quiet, watching Lucien with a steady intensity that frightened him.

'You know, Lucien, I had taken it into my head not to like you, despite my resolution to be civil. But I do believe you are in the process of changing my mind, you charming slug, you.'

Lucien swallowed. What, precisely, did that mean? 'I beg your pardon?'

'Tell me about yourself. About your mother and father, your siblings, where you were born and grew up...I want to know everything. And I, in turn, will share with you my own autobiography. However, let the next few hours be dedicated to you.'

Lucien was bewildered. He was still uncertain what it all meant, but he was certain this Fallon Avalbane was a more interesting man than he initially let on—there was something hypnotic in the unblinking sea-smoke eyes before him, and he was determined to unearth and decode the mystery that was this elusive young tenor. 'Well, I was born in Largentière, on the banks of the Rhône. My father kept a public-house. My mother was from Paris—a singer who retired at the height of her career for love. She taught me music, and when I was young, we would perform in the evenings for the guests of our establishment.'

Fallon's eyes drifted halfway shut as she listened to Lucien's story, and smoked her cigarette. She was only half listening to his words, keeping her eyes on him constantly—the way he moved, nervously, and with twitching wrists and fingers, spoke, with meaningful pauses and brief, descriptive phrases, which words he placed emphasis on, and how he attempted to smother his provincial accent in various odd words of jargon and argot he had picked up in the city. He was trying very hard to become Parisian, the ideal metropolitan man. Fallon smiled to herself. He did have a lovely speaking voice, but it was not half so agreeable as when he sang. She was certain she could put him at ease, if she allowed herself to like him, at least a little bit.


	5. The Persian

Chapter Five: The Persian

The Persian POV

She was obviously intoxicated, the black-haired Irish contralto, as she stumbled against the hermetically sealed doors of the Palais Garnier. It was nearly two in the morning, and the doors had been locked, as was the custom, at midnight. She pounded her forehead into them, shaking the handles and cursing volubly, in several varied languages. I was surprised, and somewhat embarrassed to find my own native tongue mixed in, used with a facility that left no doubt in my mind that she had learnt it on the streets.

From my balcony perch, I watched her growl and hiss in frustration for some minutes, until, finally giving in to her fate, she slumped down on the steps, her shoulders shuddering. It was a moment before I realized she was weeping. 'Damn,' I murmured, recalling that the principal rule of drunken women was to take themselves through every instance of misconduct and moment they regretted over the past five years, and pity themselves for it.

Well, there were only two things to do. Firstly, I could leave her outside the doors, unaided, to weep and bewail her state, at the worst giving away the 'great secret' of the Palais Garnier, and at best making a spectacle of herself, and scandalizing the Palais's star tenor as a drunk. Secondly, I could go down and unlock the doors, carry her inside, and give her a tisane for the sickness which would undoubtedly greet her the following morning. Of course, both options had their drawbacks, as the first would upset her further and only add to the guilt she would experience next time she was thus inebriated, and the second would require me to actively participate in her life—to introduce my person to her, and to, effectively, force her into friendship with me. I frowned. I had not had a friend since the death of the Opera Ghost, but from what I had observed of this young Irish gypsy, she possessed many attributes which I admired, foremost of which was a clear eye while lying.

I shook my head at my own gullibility—I have always been a man to cooperate easily with a pretty face—and headed down the stairs toward the main doors of the opera house. As I neared them, I could hear her on the opposite side. Her sobs were nothing like any other woman's I had not ever heard, nor ever have heard since. She wept in a low, guttural tone, where every sob was a blood-curdling roar. I felt the hairs at the base of my neck standing on end as I unlocked the doors, my hand curling round a pistol in my belt as I tugged one open.

Her eyes shot up at the noise, and burned into mine. They frightened me, I admit, and I cocked my pistol. 'And who are you?' her voice was the paragon of condescending spite. I understood. I was a stranger to her, and she, the resident headliner of the Garnier, was being let into her place of residence by me, a swarthy-skinned man she had never seen before.

'I am the Persian, Mlle. Avalbane. Doubtless you have heard of me from the dancers.'

Her sea siren eyes narrowed. 'The Persian…' for a moment, she seemed lucid, and I could see the cunning wheels of her mind turning rapidly behind her eyes. 'Yes,' her head dropped, and she reverted into a drunken slur. 'I have heard of you, and I have even seen you sometimes.' She made a feeble attempt to rise, but stumbled, her legs bucking as she tumbled onto the steps. I reached for her, but she pulled precipitously away, lips drawing back from her teeth savagely. 'Don't touch me!' she hissed, staggering past me into the opera house. I tracked her with my eyes as I locked the doors again. She turned on her toes, executing an almost-graceful pirouette. 'What I do not understand is,' she began, in a demanding tone, 'why are you still here, so long after the haunting of the Garnier has ended? Is it a matter of nostalgia? Habit? Or perhaps you simply enjoy the view in the changing rooms?' she grinned sloppily. 'No. That can't be it.' She took a step forward, sniffled, and scrubbed at her face with a sleeve. 'I apologize that you witnessed me in my unmanned and inebriated state. I am afraid I have been acting very hard tonight.'

I nodded. 'Meg told me that you had supper with Lucien Bartholémy, your rival. Why?'

She knit her brow, and pursed her lips—a charming expression, if slightly too feminine for her masculine attire and charade. 'I wished to be at peace. I do not like to argue. It is better to call a man "friend" or "foe," and not to continually revise the ground between you with petty squabbling.'

'And you have achieved such a desirable state with M. Bartholémy?'

She laughed boisterously, coming toward me, wagging her finger. 'You are exceeding curious, M. le Persian. And I am tired. And drunk. You would not take advantage of a poor, drunk girl, would you?' she batted her lashes, and paused for a moment before her eyes rolled back into her skull and she fainted. I rushed forward, catching her like so many pounds of man-meat, hefting her into my arms. She was not half so heavy as she appeared to be, and I could feel her frame, slender and wiry, a collection of angles and rangy muscles, though with an oddly sensuous and female curve in the small of her back. Securing her dead weight, I headed toward the dancers' quarters.

Her head rolled back onto my shoulder, and her parted lips emitted a low snore. So much for the tisane; I would have to administer it the following morning. It was a short trip from the antechamber to the dormitory, and I made it swiftly enough, and in tolerable silence.

Petite Jammes was still awake, sitting up in her bunk with a small lamp and a romance novelette to keep her company. As I entered, she launched herself into my path. 'Nadir!' she cried, 'Nadir, is she all right? What did you do to her?'

'She is fine, petite. She is drunk, that is all.' I paced forward and tucked the Irish gypsy into her own bed. 'She will be sick tomorrow. Do not allow her to rise when she wakes, or exert herself in any way. Do not allow light to touch her eyes, and come to me straightaway. I will give her a healing potion that will clear her mind and invigorate her nerves. For now, sleep is the only thing for her.'

'But Nadir, what of M. Bartholémy?'

'I do not know. She returned here alone, and inebriated. Now go to sleep, petite Jammes. You will be dancing tomorrow, as well as the other girls.' I bestowed a filial smile upon the girl, pressed her hand, and left the way I had come, returning to the gloomy abyss from whence I had sprung.


	6. Of Taverns and Fiacres

Chapter Six: Of Taverns and Fiacres

The week dragged on like death. There were times when I stepped mechanically into my boots and stared at myself in the mirror, seeing no one and being no one but Fallon Avalbane. I wished, at times, that I had a husband, and some children, to dandle on my knee and fuss over, and perhaps to give up this silly acting business, but then I would remember who I was. I was a woman, posing as a man. Posing. Acting as an actor, oh!—the irony. It was like a cancer, some days, even to smile, but I had become so good at it, and so accustomed to it, that I scarcely knew what else to do. I wished I was ordinary, whether a man or a woman, but at least ordinary and honest. I could never be honest, never again, anyhow. I had only ever been honest with my family, and that was all.

I had been honest with the Romany tribe I had traveled with, in Spain, and the Rabari, in India, for my father and mother were always attaching themselves to various wandering nomads, and thus I had learnt every trade and trait possible from them. It was these Westerners and Europeans that I had to hide myself from. I had to braid my hair and wear boots over my trousers, a cravat and a waist-coat. I could not let my hair flow free, paint my hands with henna, and run bare-foot in the streets, playing guitar and singing at the top of my lungs. I had to pour my talent, my instrument, my voice, into their farcical plays. What better a farce to sing than that of _Monte Cristo_?

Lucien Bartholémy and I began to get along famously, and I visited his flat sometimes in the afternoons, when there was no rehearsal. I spent my evenings out late with Ruggerio, Meg, and the dancers I felt most kinship with. There was Sorelli, an Italian dancer getting on in years, that is, she was nearly twenty-five, Jammes, a beautiful young ballerina who had just turned sixteen, and their lovers, Marius Caillaud and Octavien Danis, respectively. There were two or three more girls who frequented the same billiard-halls, but they scarcely spoke with me, as they were either chorus girls, or felt as though they had no business infringing on our society. One night, I turned from shooting on the billiard-table to look into the Comte de Chagny's eyes.

I wasn't entirely certain what to say, but he nodded to me in the most ingratiating fashion. 'Good evening, M. Avalbane,' he said quietly. I had never known Raoul to be one for public-houses or taverns, and I supposed he had come only to see me. Perhaps he had gotten information concerning my whereabouts from one of the opera house frequenters.

'Good evening, M. le Comte. How went your day?'

'Well. I hear rehearsals for Dominic Voretti's _Monte Cristo_ are coming to a close.'

'Scarcely so, M. le Comte.' I replied coolly, 'we have come to a decisive midpoint.'

'Midpoint, is it? Why, I never imagined that an opera took quite so long to learn.'

'You must realize, M. le Comte, that we are learning entirely new parts, with entirely new dances and scenes—a fresh opera, if you will. Besides, it is the reopening of the Garnier, you must understand. It is quite necessary that things go off without a hitch.'

'Of course. Would you do me the honour of drinking a carafe of wine with me?' I glanced up at Ruggerio. He was leaning on his cue, a wry light in his eyes, with the candles throwing weird shadows across his swarthy Italian features.

'Once I have well-won my prize here. You see, there are fifteen francs riding on this game, M. le Comte. Perhaps you should speak with Mlle. Giry whilst we are playing. I am certain she would be delighted to entertain you. After all, she was your wife's intimate friend whilst they lived together.'

'Of course. I trust you will alert me when your game here is won?'

'_Mais, oui_, M. le Comte.'

'Please, it is Raoul.'

I bowed, and returned to my game. Ruggerio bent to whisper in my ear as he scouted the table for a shot. 'Whatever you are planning with the Comte, be certain it is not to either of your embarrassment. The scandal of a singer is the scandal of the opera.'

I shot him a disapproving glance. 'Place your shot, Ruggerio, and leave me to my own business.'

'As a friend, _farfalla_,' he smiled, and chalked his hands up. 'I advise only as a friend.'

'And as your friend, Ruggerio, I reply, you need not fear for my safety. I know as well, perhaps better, than you, that to give oneself away is to give one's soul away. Knowledge is power.' I smiled narrowly, and glanced across the room at Raoul, who was chatting amiably with Meg. He caught my eyes, and nodded tightly. I was worried about him, but my worries would keep until the end of the game.

Fallon smirked at Ruggerio as she dropped three hundred-sou pieces into his waiting hands. 'There you are, Signor Lorenzi, and not a sou less than your due.'

'Ah, my labours have paid well with my hard-gotten winnings, eh, Fallon?' he winked at her. 'I suppose it is now time for you to socialize with your little comte,' he added, in a low voice.

'It certainly is.' she glanced over at Raoul, who was sitting alone with a half-empty carafe of Muscatel before him. Fallon winced. The sweet, potent wine would wreak havoc on his delicate system, if he over-drank, and he would be a miserable creature come the morning. Moving toward him, she took hold of the carafe and drank directly from it. 'Signor Lorenzi will laugh behind his teeth every time we play billiards now, for allowing my concentration to be jolted by a little comte.'

'Is that what I am called by your friends?' he lifted his wide blue eyes, dulled by drink, to hers. She shrugged complacently, and took a seat across from him.

'You have sought me out here, Raoul. What is it you wanted of me?' he laughed. So, she still had that damnably straight-talking way about her.

'I wished to speak with someone I trust, and I do not have what you might call...friends in Paris. Or anywhere, for that matter, now that Philippe is dead. I am not wholly certain how to explain myself, but I could not speak with Christine, so I came here. I know the dancers often come here, with their lovers, to entertain themselves, and I know that you have the tendency of going along with the general census, if only to blend in, and display no undue eccentricities.' there was a lag in his tongue—a slur prompted by wine.

'Did you ask after me first at the Palais Garnier?' Fallon raised a black brow. Raoul shook his head.

'I thought on whether, perhaps, you had retired for the night, but I know you, Llew—Fallon. I know you prefer to deepen the riddle by consorting frequently with those you deceive. I knew Meg, and Sorelli would be here. I did not think petite Jammes would be so brazen as to attend the night-life scene, however. But you and Signor Lorenzi were so enjoying yourselves that I was hesitant to ruin your game. I feel as though I should repay you your losses.' he grinned sloppily, and his eyes roamed unsteadily.

'Certainly not. It is my own fault that I lost. Ruggerio proved himself the better man, tonight.'

'Then he does not know you are a woman?'

'No, he does. He barged into the dormitory whilst I was changing, and scarcely seemed sorry for it. But I am glad I have someone to be honest with, other than the female dancers and the managers.'

'Yes.' he sighed deeply, and Fallon searched his eyes briefly, to ascertain what his sorrow tonight could be composed of. 'It is good to have friends.' he waved a hand at a serving wench to order another carafe of wine. Fallon wondered whether it was wise to allow him to drink any further, as he seemed already to be somewhat affected by the Muscatel he had imbibed.

'What is it you wished to tell me, Raoul?' she nearly extended a hand to touch his arm before she recalled herself, and only looked again into his eyes.

'In all of the opera gossip, have you ever heard how Christine and I came to marry?'

'After a fashion.' she wondered, for a moment, where he could be taking this line of thought.

'And what did you hear?'

'I was told a fantastic and tearful tale by Meg and petite Jammes about an awful monster of a man, the Opera Ghost, _le Fantôme de'l Opéra_, who wore a death's head mask and taught Christine to sing. They said he fell in love with her, and carried her off sometimes, for weeks at a time. It is said that he was allied with a certain mysterious Persian. I have met this man, and his valet, Darius, and he seems to me to be a great enigma. He lurks in the flies and the scene-rooms, with his astrakhan cap askew and his foreign garments, with his brilliant eyes watching, always watching. I asked him, once, about this mysterious Opera Ghost, but he only laughs and says I should not inquire too curiously, or perhaps he will return from the grave. Apparently, he is now dead.'

'Ah, that is what they believe!' howled Raoul, with a mournful accent, so that Fallon fancied that he was perhaps a little addled in the mind. She grasped his hand in hers, now, with little regard for who might be watching.

'_Mon Dieu_, do not lift your voice so, Raoul! There are ears in this place, you know?'

'Ah, yes.' he lowered his voice to an ominous whisper, and leant toward her, all frightfully pale. 'Oh, Llewellyn, if only you knew how I have suffered! I know she loved him, as well as I know she loves him still. A woman does not lie to a man unless she cares for him, to protect him from something. He gave her the freedom she wished for in exchange for the truth, but still, she lied. So I enlisted his help in forming my own deception, in order for the both of us to prove our love to her.'

'You deceived your wife?'

'Erik did the same! He helped me! Oh, he helped me!' the disconsolate moan tore itself violently from Raoul's lips. 'She believes, as everyone else does, that he is dead, but he lives! He is alive, do you hear? The Angel of Music lives!'

'Calm yourself, Raoul. Do you mean to tell me that the Opera Ghost is still in habitance beneath the Garnier?' He uttered a coarse, brief laugh, terrifying in its cold candour.

'Beneath the Garnier? Oh, no! He would not have remained with her memory for all the gold in the world, let alone a measly twenty thousand francs a month! He fled Paris, and France. He went first to Spain, for he has ties to the Romany there, with whom he spent his youth, but I believe he traveled back to Persia, where he spent some years in the past, as well. He writes to me now and again, informing me of his life, and inquiring after Christine, as though she were a dog and he her absent owner. Oh, Llewellyn, you know nothing of the torments I have suffered, to dream continually, as I do, of his fiery eyes, and his face, composed of its dead and distorted flesh!—oh!—his face is a devil's face! Oh, spite! Spite! Spite!' he dashed his hands into his hair, and for a moment, Fallon fancied him to be quite mad. But then she recalled that he was a sensitive soul, and something even as slight as an awry dream of a former rival could haunt him and tease him, and utterly jolt his emotional security. What he needed was either to be comforted from his despair, or, failing that, to be frightened out of it. She reached toward him, but he looked up, sharp blue eyes glistening with unshed tears of fear and despair. 'She does not know that her beloved Angel is alive. Did you know that he has requested my leave to return to Paris? All he ever wanted of Christine was for her to make him ordinary. All he ever wished to have was a wife, "to take out on Sundays," he said. That is all he wanted of Christine—to make her happy. To fawn on her and smile at her. That is less that what I want of her, Llewellyn.'

'I am sorry, Raoul. I am sorry you...'

'Do not sympathize! I am wretched! Wretched!' he pulled at his hair. Well, so much for comfort. Fallon wrenched him up by his arm and marched him out of the tavern before he could say a word, even before a look of astonishment could cross his face. She tugged him into a side alley, shoved him roughly against a wall, and punched him soundly in the gut. He fell to his knees, gasping for air, gazing up at her balefully.

'Shut your whining mouth and pull yourself together. _You_ are the man Christine chose for her husband, and _you_ are the man responsible for her. You have made her the Comtesse de Chagny, and you will continue to be her husband, regardless of this Erik creature. So what if he wishes to return to Paris? It matters little where he is, who he is, or what he looks like, only that he understands that Christine is yours, and yours alone.'

He struggled to his feet. Fallon reached down, lifting his hands to her shoulders. He wobbled unsteadily on his feet, reeling from the effects of both wine and the blow to his windbag. 'If he were beautiful,' he gasped raggedly, 'she would be with him. She loved his soul before she loved my face.'

'You are simply feeling sorry for yourself, a practice which I suggest you desist with immediately. You are her Prince Charming. You slay dragons and deprive witches of their enchantments. The arrows of your rivals turn to roses before you. What have you to fear from another man?'

'He says, Llewellyn...he says that I shall be his brother, and that he shall _love_ me, for Christine's sake.'

'That shows simply that he is a man of honour.'

'But he is mad—he is a monster! A murderer!'

'As am I.' her words had the effect of a bucket of cold water being doused unceremoniously over his head. 'He killed for her, as I have killed for you. Or do you not recall?' She felt his spine stiffen, becoming straighter and more severe.

'Yes, I remember.' and it was almost as though he could taste the blood again. 'I am sorry for troubling you. It has not been my place.'

'Do not leave like this, Raoul. You have a heavy mind, but speaking of your troubles will never afford you any form of peace. Perhaps you should speak with this man, face-to-face, and inquire after his motives for returning to Paris, and how they might affect you, especially as Christine believes that he is dead.'

'With all my strength, I will spare her the knowledge that he is alive.' he paused. 'But meeting with Erik!—that would mean leaving Paris, and Christine. That would mean leaving her to fate, while I face this monster!'

'That cannot be. You must have someone you trust enough, to be her chaperon, and to care for her while you are gone.'

'I am scarcely known to anyone, and the limp-wristed socialites and aristae I am acquainted with can scarcely be counted on to either suffice as a protector, or be trusted not to attempt to seduce her.' he thought for a moment. 'Perhaps you could...yes. I trust you, and I know you are redoubtable enough to keep my Christine safe for me. I should trust you even to the Ghost's very face! You know, the first thing I thought when I believed it should come down to a duel betwixt myself and him, was that I wished you were there, for I knew that if I were afraid to kill another man, that you would not be, and that you very easily could match strength and skill with any given opponent.'

'Raoul, you cannot be serious.'

'Come, now. You must be tired of living at the opera house, and you would have everything in my household at your disposal—horses, a carriage, servants, money; you should lack for nothing. Oh!—say you will!'

'Raoul, such a thing is inconceivable. In the first place, you cannot expect a woman of Christine's calibre to allow herself to be affiliated with an opera singer. Secondly, to have me living in her house...people would talk, Raoul. Her reputation could be scarred forever.'

'But if it were known that I requested it of you, there should be no question amongst any social circle. You know, they should probably wonder whether we were related. Perhaps I shall say that you are a relation of my sister's husband. Yes, that should be perfect. You are the second cousin of my dear Helène's husband, and you are visiting Paris, staying with my wife while I am taking a business tour of my estates abroad. It is perfect. Christine already asks after you whenever she has reason to believe I have seen anyone from the Palais Garnier.'

'Of course, but I am scarcely qualified...'

'She adores you! She does! She never stops speaking of attending _Monte Cristo_ on opening night, simply to hear your voice. She has only heard you once, I believe, at your audition for the Garnier, but she is entranced, as though by magic.'

'I have met her all of two times, Raoul.'

'And she is transfixed. She hears of you from Meg Giry, and from her dancing friends, you know? They all say you are the most elegant, the most polite, the noblest of men!'

'Then they have not told her...'

'Certainly not! They are utterly respectful of your secrets, and guard them as though they were their own.'

'Then you should have no qualms about leaving your wife in the care of a man whom, to all social knowledge, you have met but a handful of times?'

'I must leave her with someone I trust.'

'What of your sisters, Raoul?'

'No.' he shook his head resolutely. 'No. They've families of their own, and besides, that would mean uprooting Christine from Paris. That would be cruel to her, while she is only now finding her element. And she adores you. You could give her more reason to convince me to support the Palais Garnier.'

'How do you honestly think that Christine would take to this madcap idea? You have been married for all of four months, Raoul. You are newlyweds! And now, you would be gallivanting off into the sunset in search of demons from your past? The very man who would have prevented your union?'

'You presented me with the idea of gallivanting, in the first place, and into the nethermost regions of hell, no less. I should think you would at least have the propriety to support me once I have decided to face my fears, if only by taking care of my wife for me.'

'I am not a babysitter.'

'You rather babysat me well, in Marseilles.' he whimpered. Her eyes hardened.

'Yes. Rather. I am willing to do anything for you, Raoul, even to walk into hell in your stead, and if I thought it would be a good idea, I should confront this Phantom myself. However, he would probably see it as his jealous rival sending an assassin after him, and I should not have my foot halfway into his door before I was Punjabbed to death.'

'Ah, so you heard of his fateful lasso?' Raoul murmured.

'Yes, I have.'

'Then you will do this for me?'

'If your wife consents. And I will have nothing of you insisting that I live with her while you are away. The idea must be agreeable to her, and she must utter no complaints at all, do you understand?'

He seized her round the waist with a feverish intensity, and kissed her forehead resoundingly. 'You are my guardian angel, Llew. Ah, you beautiful, angelic creature! If I never have another friend, I shall be satisfied with having been your brother!' She sighed.

'You are a terrible nuisance of a brother.' she sighed resignedly. 'You will find me either here, or at the Palais Garnier, and if I am not there, you may call on me another night, or during the day.'

'Very well.' he nodded, and embraced her once again.

'Do you need help getting home?'

'Put me in a fiacre and give them my address.' he murmured. She nodded, slung one of his arms over her shoulder, and took him, step by stumbling step, toward the main street, his eyes rolling at every step. Hailing a cab, she hefted the young man and shoved him in. His head fell limply on the cushion, his mouth open, snoring gently. She rolled her eyes. She could not very well allow him to go home this way, trusting a common fiacre-driver not to empty his pockets, insert a knife into him, and dump his body in an alley. She slid in beside him, and shouted, 'Rue St. Antoine!' slapping the roof of the cab, she shut the door and settled back beside the boy.

'Raoul, Raoul, you unlucky bastard. Always getting me into trouble. And now I'm going to have to explain this to your wife. For shame.' She sighed and closed her eyes, yielding herself to the monotonous rumble of the cab's wheels against the paved street.

The streets looked chilled and damp from the fiacre window, and Fallon closed her eyes against the hard-edged realism of it all. She'd been living in a dream-world for the past weeks—she could see that now. It had been cruel of her to play, yet again, on the trusting good-will of the general populace. Of course, it had only been some three weeks—not even a month, since she had arrived in Paris, and yet she already was singing in a leading role, had a patron, was being courted by a famous opera singer, and was involved in an aristocrat's intrigue. She sighed, resting her cheek against Raoul's fair hair. His face was pressed into her shoulder, his left arm thrown over her waist. He was the very picture of vulnerability, and she could not help but recall all the times they had stumbled back into their island house, just off the coast of Marseilles, returning from a tavern and a drinking binge in the port city. As a tender youth of seventeen years, raised by his married elder sisters and a gaggle of tutors, he had never learnt to hold his liquor, and, though she was just over half a year younger than he, she had always been the one to ply him with water and make certain that he did not pass out before arriving safely in his own bed.

Gazing down at him, she studied him, as she formulated her explanation of his state to his wife. His eyes were closed, and the purple and blue marbling of his veins cried out from beneath his paste-coloured skin, and his fair hair was glued to his temples by sweat. His delicate features, so beautiful and effeminate, with that high, smooth forehead, the arched, pale brows, his long, sharp nose, in which she found his sole facial flaw, and his wide, white lips. He was a child, yet, despite having advanced so far ahead of her in life, that is, having gotten himself married. Fallon knew that it was the first time he had ever fallen in love, and wondered what had possessed him to marry at such a young age. He had always wished to be an adventurer, and his brief career in the Navy had been a brilliant beginning. He had always been so high-minded, so thoughtful and utterly purposeful, and yet he had married an opera singer. Granted, apparently, there was something of a history between them, dating back to their mutual childhood, but notwithstanding. Fallon was astonished that he had even contemplated such a ridiculous scheme. But now here she was, driving him home from a public-house, to a wife who had sung in the selfsame opera as she, not six months previously.

They were on the Rue St. Jacques now, nearing the Rue de St. Antoine, coming up across The Île de Nôtre-Dame, and the young woman felt in her waist-coat pocket for twenty sous. It was a long drive, but this cab was a poor one, smelling of sweat and cigarette smoke. She found a coin, and held it up, squinting her eyes to discern its value. It was five francs. Rolling her eyes, she replaced it, and began feeling for another. The movement jostled Raoul, and he woke, his red-rimmed eyes fluttering before they opened. 'Christine,' he moaned, his vision unfocused, 'Christine,' he clutched at Fallon's collar.

'Hush, Raoul.' She hissed. 'I'll have you home with your wife in no time at all. And look, here we are in the Rue St. Antoine.' Gently repulsing him, she stood, and leant her head out the window, shouting above the clatter of the cab, 'Driver! Number eight, if you please!' Before she allowed herself to rest beside him, she dug in her pockets, and retrieved the coin she sought. 'You're drunk,' she glared at him through her enigmatic eyes, 'and we are going to explain to Mme. de Chagny that it was your fault, and not mine, that you literally inhaled a carafe of Muscatel on your own.'

'But...'

'She won't scold you. She is far too in love with you for that.'

'She despises alcoholics.'

'You're scarcely an alcoholic, if a single bottle will inebriate you so powerfully that you pass into unconsciousness.' she rolled her eyes, and the fiacre creaked to a stop. 'Come on, now. Can you stand?'

'I...I think I need to...' his eyes widened, and he scrambled over her, out of the cab, and emptied the contents of his stomach into the gutter. Fallon glanced over him calmly, and flicked the twenty sous to the driver.

'Have a safe evening, monsieur,' she drew her lips back from her teeth in a quick smile, and winked. The fiacre driver tipped his hat, and the cab rolled away. Turning toward the aristocrat, who was still heaving over the sidewalk, she nudged his knee with her boot. 'Come on, now, Raoul. Come on.' She crouched down beside him, and tipped his chin up, so his eyes met hers. 'Raoul, look at me.'

'I feel sick.'

'Of course you feel sick. You never were one for drink.'

'Take me home, Llewellyn, I am wretched.'

'You must stop with the wretchedness. Put on your bravest face. You are going to face your wife.'

'What time is it?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'You heard me.' he growled. Fallon drew her pocket watch out, into the light of the street-lamps.

'Nearly one o'clock.'

'She'll be upset.' he slurred. 'Very upset. Don't bring me home, Llew. She'll be so...augh.' he gagged, and coughed.

'I will make excuses for you, _mon ami_, _mon frère_.' she murmured soothingly, stroking his hair.

'Will you take me to bed, and cool my brow? As you did in Marseilles?'

'I am afraid I am not well enough acquainted with your household to take such a liberty, but your wife will be certain to...'

'_Non_,' he moaned feverishly. 'I will not go up if you do not.'

'Come on, then, do not be so contrary.' she stood, hauling him up alongside her. 'There are your front steps, and there is your front door. Let us go up, Raoul, and we will speak with your wife.'

'But...you will not come with me?'

'No, I will not. I will make my excuses for you, and then I will retire to the opera house.'

'But...you will not find a fiacre at this time of night, in this neighborhood.' he hiccupped. 'You shall have to stay here, as my guest. Christine will invite you. You will see. She is hospitable, and you are her current obsession.'

'Let us get you into your house first.' Fallon argued, and slung his arm over her shoulders. He nodded weakly, and followed her, tripping up the steps leading to his door. Her hands were occupied with supporting his weight, so she lifted her foot and kicked against the door. He glared sharply at her. 'One does the best one can, with what one has to work with.' she grinned weakly, and they shared an uneasy laugh. The door was opened, moments later, by Christine herself, in a night-dress, holding a taper. Her eyes were wide, bright with fear. She was bare-footed, and her hair fell in a torrent of gold over her shoulders.

'Raoul!' she exclaimed. 'M. Avalbane! What happened?'

'Oh, M. le Comte had a misadventure with a bottle of Muscatel, that is all.' Fallon replied glibly, with an air of confidence and a lady-killing smile. 'I ran into him at a public house, and brought him home by fiacre.'

'Come in! Quickly!' she stepped aside. Fallon hefted Raoul, caught him up behind the knees, and carried him bodily into the house. Christine led her into a parlour, and Fallon laid Raoul on a chaise-lounge. 'Oh, my. I shall have to wake poor Delormé to carry him up the stairs.'

'He is conscious, Mme. la Comtesse,' Fallon smirked, 'and I can very easily aid him, if he will use his legs.' a low, cracked laugh came from the semi-conscious comte.

'You're a sadistic one, Ll—Avalbane,' Raoul's words ran together. Christine blushed.

'Raoul! How dare you behave after such a manner toward M. Avalbane, when he had the grace and courtesy to bring you home! I beg your pardon. I am terribly grateful that you have done this for us. Pray, monsieur, allow me to remunerate you for your trouble, and please, stay the night here. The hour is late, and it will be difficult to procure a cab at this time.' Fallon bowed.

'On the condition, Mme. la Comtesse, that you allow me to see to M. le Comte's well-being personally. I have had much experience with men of delicate composition, especially in regards to intoxication, and it is an easily-solved thing for me to mop his brow and tuck him in.' Christine gazed at her in astonishment at the outlandish request. 'I shall not feel as though I have earned your gratitude unless I have seen my task through to the end.' she paused, then added, 'Think of it as the trifling eccentricity of an artist.'

'Of course.' she sighed. 'I am enraged with him, that he would do such a thing. He left without telling anyone. I would, in all honesty, rather not have to deal with his drunkenness.'

Fallon smiled again, that quick, near-imperceptible flash of a grin. 'Thank you, Mme. la Comtesse.'

'Please. It is Christine.' she laid a hand on his arm, and smiled into his eyes. 'After you have driven my intoxicated husband home, there can be no more formality between us. In fact, I feel as though I have known you since my childhood. You are a kindred spirit to me, M. Avalbane.'

'Fallon.'

'Quit flirting with my wife, Avalbane,' Raoul said, 'and take care of me.'

'Raoul!' Christine remonstrated. 'I beg your pardon, but he is being terribly rude. I apologize.'

'No, please...Christine. We have had some drinks together tonight, and I am flattered, if anything, that the Comte feels so informal and friendly in my presence that he loses his decorum.'

'I frown on sarcasm,' she laughed, and leant down to smooth Raoul's hair. 'Oh, but he looks a sight. Do allow me to show you to our room.'

'Of course.' Fallon grasped Raoul's hand, and braced him up against her, as she had while dragging him up the steps. They turned down the hall, and up a long flight of stairs. The de Chagny mansion was decorated rather conservatively, with portraits of ancestors and romantic, pastoral scenes. There was not a jot of military or bohemian style in the house, and Fallon knit her brow as she realized just how utterly Raoul had changed himself, to suit his brother, Philippe. She had never met him, but she imagined that the late Comte de Chagny was a stodgy, vile fellow who had wished for nothing more than to choke the life and vivacious wonder from his younger brother. Of course, she had believed that for some years now, ever since he had sent for Raoul, tearing him away from the idyllic life he had enjoyed in Marseilles.

'It is just here,' Christine's voice jolted her concentration, and Fallon turned toward the door the countess was indicating. It was slightly ajar, and Fallon nudged it open with her shoulders. It was dark, but she managed to navigate her way to the bed, and she eased Raoul down on it gently. There was a basin of water in the corner of the room, and Fallon drew a kerchief from the comte's sleeve, soaking it and wringing it out, sponging Raoul's forehead gently. Christine sat at the edge of the bed, and looked on, almost warily. Fallon ignored her, unbuttoning Raoul's jacket and waistcoat, sliding them off, and opening his shirt, clearing the sweat from his neck and chest briskly and methodically, then returning to his forehead. Raoul was out cold again.

'I imagine, Christine,' she began, in a low, soothing tone, 'that you wonder why I insisted upon carrying my task out to its end, and I can see the question in your eyes. I will answer you, without hearing it, and do not think me indelicate for this liberty.' she took a breath, to allow the woman to say something, if she wished. When the comtesse remained silent, she continued, 'It is, my lady, because I recalled that you are a woman of an exceeding delicate frame, and that you could never have dealt with a man of M. le Comte's build without difficulty. I, madame, am an incurable chival, and was therefore compelled to force you, to say it plainly, to allow me to administer my attentions to your husband. I had a brother, once, not by flesh, mind you, but a brother-in-arms, in the Grecian army, who was a green stripling when it came to drink, and in the army, it is tradition to swill as much sweet wine as possible the evening before a battle. The first time I fought beside him, I was dead drunk, and he was sick to the stomach. It was a simple thing to keep him alive, and then to cure him the next time. I will leave for you a marvelous panacea that you may administer to him in the morning.' she rose. 'I will retire to the parlour, madame, and leave before first light.'

'No, please.' she rose quickly, gathering up her husband's clothing, folding it, and hanging it over an armchair. 'Please, do not leave in the morning, so early. I must have a chance to speak with you. I wish to know what Raoul thought he was doing, leaving the house, without informing anyone of his intentions, and returning like this. Besides, you have not seen your task though.' she smiled up at Fallon, a coy sort of smile, and she gazed through her lashes. With a sigh, the singer relented.

'You are too charming, Christine, for me to resist. Yes, I will stay.'

'Then allow me to show you to a guest room. It will not do for me to keep the star tenor of the Palais Garnier sleeping on a chaise all night, when there are perhaps twenty empty rooms in the household.' she held out her arm, and Fallon looped her own through it.

'Onward, madame. I am at your disposal.'


	7. Mon maître, mon Grand

Chapter Seven: _Mon maître, mon Grand!_

Christine woke the following morning with the dawn, as compulsion of habit directed. She rang for her _femme-de-chambre_, and opened the drapes in her bedroom, in order that Raoul, who was sleeping soundly, might be greeted by the beauty of a bright morning when he woke. Once her maid had dressed her, and did up her hair, she took the countess' order for breakfast.

Stealing down the steps of her mansion, Christine wondered fleetingly when Raoul would wake, and whether she should send for Delormé, his valet, to keep watch over him until he did. As she entered the kitchen, she saw that Fallon Avalbane had woken already, and seemed quite fresh for having spent the previous evening in a public-house, and the night in a strange household. His glossy raven hair was neatly-braided, and his casual day-suit was pressed, telling nary a wrinkle. He smelled lightly of sage and pure lavender, an oddly masculine scent on such an effeminate creature. He was sitting at the dining-table, in front of a half-eaten bowl of fruit and a small glass of steaming Turkish coffee, reading _Le Figaro_. As Christine entered, he looked up, his eyes shrouded and unreadable. However, when he caught her gaze, and the edge of hesitance in her bearing, a slow smile quirked the edges of his lips. 'Good morning, Christine,' he nodded. 'Is M. de Chagny awake?'

'No. I'm afraid not. When he does, he will be ill, so I hope to postpone that eventuality.'

'Here,' the singer reached into his pocket, and produced a glass vial, which contained perhaps half a pint of a viscous, amber coloured syrup. 'I acquired this potion from a fabulous and ingenious man who lurks in the flies of the Garnier. It has cured me once of the same condition that awaits the count. One is simply to mix two tablespoons of it with half a cup of the liquor he was drinking, which was Occitanian Muscatel, and follow that with a quart or two of water. He will empty the contents of his stomach, and five minutes later feel ravenously hungry. Once he has eaten, your husband will, as we say in Ireland, feel as healthy as a horse.'

'Is that so?'

'Yes. I trust entirely in this recipe, madame. It was given me by a man whose identity, in fact, you may well know. He is called, by the dancers at the Palais, "the Persian."'

Christine felt the colour draining from her face. 'Yes,' she whispered, summoning all her self-control. 'I know him. I was of the impression that he had retired from the Palais.'

'No indeed, madame, to the contrary. Rather, he is something of a watch-dog, looking out for the virtue of all the little ballerinas. They are all very fond of him, Christine, and call him by his given name, which, I believe, is Nadir. In payment for these services, which MM. Moncharmin and Richard find virtually indispensible, he lives in a subterranean house in the fifth cellar, which he inhabits with his servant, old M. Darius. M. Nadir Khan is a strange one, to be sure, and when first I met him, I was highly suspicious of his character. After speaking with him, however, for a few minutes in his native Farsi, I found that he entertained similar feelings toward my person. We have become something of friends now, despite our predispositions, and I admit, he is a welcome distraction from the monotony of opera life.'

'Now there is a phrase I thought I should never hear uttered! When I lived in the Palais, it was quite a different story, and there was always something exciting happening.'

'I have heard, Christine, that your time at the opera was marked by the famous, or rather, infamous, Phantom, whose reign of terror, I believe, I would much have enjoyed to thwart.'

Christine had, by now, entirely recovered herself, and smiled charmingly. 'I should have liked to see your attempt at such a feat. M. le Fantôme was an exceedingly clever man.'

'Yes.' Fallon nodded consideringly. 'M. Khan, that is, the Persian, has shown me many of his contrivances and mechanisms, and I must say, he is—or rather, was—a man of exceptional intellect. If I could not have bested him, I should at least have liked to interview him. His decease is an unfortunate circumstance.'

'In more ways that you realise, monsieur—Fallon.' Christine sat forward as her requested breakfast arrived, and she was soon engaged in eating busily. There was a brief silence, during which the young singer opposite her shuffled his newspaper, and sipped at his coffee. Finally, she glanced up at her companion, and said, 'How is it, that you came to the Palais Garnier? You are Irish, are you not?'

'Yes, but a regrettably brief portion of my life—under two years—was spent in the country whose shores boast my parents' birth. I was traveling, you see, two months ago, with a carnival, and my employment with them was terminated just as they were leaving Paris. I also, had run out of personal funds, as I counted on being paid very soon, and was given no severance. That is the danger of working with magic-makers. It was by pure good fortune that I heard the opera house was in need of singers. I presented myself, and my credentials from the Venetian Opera, at which I headlined in '66, and M. Reyer was so impressed that, subsequent to the audition you attended, he hired me straightaway. The rest is history.'

'I must confess,' Christine began, with a coy smile, 'I am fascinated by your voice, despite the fact that I have heard you sing only on two occasions. Whenever I can, I have praised your merits to my friends, and Raoul jokes that you are my latest obsession, calling you my "evil angel." I hope you are not offended.'

Fallon laughed, and it was a genuine laugh, not through her teeth, as many Anglicans tended. 'I am much flattered, firstly that you so enjoyed my meagre performances, and secondly that your husband ascribes me with being a supernatural being of any kind, evil or not. Despite my respect for M. le Comte, my ethereality is much suspect.'

'That is a test to be passed or failed upon the opening of _Monte Cristo_.' Christine murmured. 'I remember my first opening. I was terribly nervous. Of course, you are a veteran of the opera, whereas I was always a simple chorus girl, always sitting behind the scenes dispassionately.' she sighed. 'Ah, but there is much romance to being a star. Doubtless you have experienced the nauseating reporters, the throngs of adoring admirers calling your name, pressing upon one another in order to hear a single word drop from your lips. And the lawyers! Ah!' she laughed. 'They are all attempting to get you to insure your voice for a million francs! I declare! Whatever should I do with a million francs, if I could not sing! I should go mad.'

'I think, madame, that I should kill myself if I had no music.' Fallon said quietly, her incisive tone making Christine's head snap up, her eyes searching for those of the strange young artist.

'Well, then, you must promise me that you will never lose your music. For what would the Palais Garnier do without Fallon Avalbane to sing their tragic Edmond Dantès?'

'They should get M. Bartholémy to sing him.'

The two laughed, but there was a distinct unease between them now that Fallon had introduced the dark ideas that had always lurked in the byways of Christine's mind. She had never thought of what she might do, if she ever lost her music. Of course, she _had_ lost her Angel, but that was in the past. _In the past,_ she insisted to herself, and passed a delicate hand across her forehead, as though to clear away the cobwebs that had trapped and clouded her thoughts. 'Would you care, Fallon,' Christine suddenly said, 'to tell my cook how to prepare that particular formula you have prescribed for my husband, which the Persian introduced you to?'

'In fact, madame, I am so concerned after his health,' Fallon said, standing, 'that I will mix it myself. If you would, direct me to the kitchen, that I may introduce myself to your worthy chef?'

'Please, allow me to escort you.' she rose, and Fallon offered her arm to the countess. Within a few moments, they had arrived in the kitchen, and the astonished de Chagny cook glanced up at his mistress.

'Mme. la Comtesse,'

'Good morning, Giles.' she smiled charmingly. 'My husband was drinking last night, and I have with me a guest who says he can prepare a marvellous tisane which will cure M. le Comte of all his ills when he wakes.'

'Oh?' Giles blinked.

'Yes. M. Avalbane, my esteemed chef, M. Giles Bertrand. Giles, this is M. Fallon Avalbane.'

The poor chef rubbed his eyes, and looked more bewildered than ever. 'M. Avalbane? The new tenor at the Palais Garnier?'

'The very same.' Fallon saluted him, and withdrew the vial the Persian had given her.

'You are to help M. Avalbane in any way possible, and give him the precise ingredients he requires.' Christine smiled. 'And when you are finished, my dear monsieur, I shall be at my husband's side, and you may administer your medication.'

Fallon nodded, and, as she left, then turned toward the chef. 'M. Bertrand, I apologize if I am in any manner encroaching upon...'

'Ah, never mind, never mind!' he waved his thick fingers, and returned to basting a duck. 'What do you need for this marvellous potion, then?'

'Half a cup of Toulouse Muscatel, and a quantity of water.'

'Is that all?'

'Yes, that is all.' Bertrand waved to one of his kitchen attendants, and murmured something to him, and the young woman hurried away, returning shortly with a glass, a bottle of wine, and a pitcher of water. Fallon took the items, and, balancing them precariously, headed toward the room where Christine and Raoul waited for her. As she entered, she found the room ablaze with light from the window, shutters and drapes flung wide open. With a little cry, she rushed forward, and, depositing the wine and water on a side table, she closed them quickly. Fortunately, Raoul was not yet awake.

'What are you doing?' Christine inquired, her eyes blinking rapidly in the dark.

'Madame, if the count wakes to bright lights, it will only try his toleration for pain in ways you cannot imagine. Come, then, your eyes will adjust in moments.' Fallon filled the cup half-way with Muscatel, and drew the Persian's syrup from his jacket, pouring a small quantity into the wine, where it instantly dissolved. Taking the cup toward the bed, where Raoul reclined, asleep, she set it on the end-table and turned toward the wash-basin, taking a cloth and first saturating it, then wringing from it the cool water. Again approaching the recumbent nobleman, she sat beside him on the bed, and, under Christine's watchful eye, began to sing.

_'O, mon maître, ò mon Grand! dans des splendeurs de songe,_

_Que ton à-me, aé-leve, aux cieux loin du menson-ge._

_Et que ton coeur si doux pla-na dans les clartés,_

_Où tout ce qu'il rè -va devient rè-a-li-té!_

_O, mon maître!—ò.''__i_

Her voice, low-pitched and tender, make the tears start to Christine's eyes, and for a moment, she felt as though she should not be witnessing so intimate a moment. Then, she shook her head, reminding herself that her husband scarcely knew the young opera singer, and perhaps this was only the way Fallon custimarily woke those he ministrated to. Raoul's lashes fluttered as he opened his eyes, and he murmured, 'Llewellyn?' in a distant voice.

'No, M. le Comte. Fallon Avalbane. Here, drink this, and quickly.' she lifted the cup to his lips with one hand, and raised him to a sitting position with the other. He had swallowed the contents to the very dregs before he realized what it was, and as the flavour touched his numb tongue, he grimaced.

'Damn. Damn, that is...' he had no time to finish the thought, as Fallon presented him with the pitcher of water, and, without transferring its liquid into the smaller vessel, forced him to drink a great quantity of it. Choking and sputtering, Raoul pushed her hands away. 'M. Avalbane!' he cried. 'What is the meaning of this?' wordlessly, the singer slid her arms under him, hauled him bodily out of bed, and dragged him toward the door of the privy. Christine followed, her eyes wide and worried. Raoul hunched over the chamber pot, expelling the contents of his stomach, Fallon looking on with approval.

'Very good, Raoul. Come along, then, _mon ami_. That's it. You'll be well soon. Ah, it does hurt, yes? Come along, nearly finished.' Eyes watering, stomach trembling, Raoul gave one final cough and fell back into Fallon's arms. She wiped his mouth with the damp cloth, and pressed her lips gently to his burning forehead. 'You've done well, Raoul. Very well, _mon ami_.' she stroked his face, finger-tips running over the stubble that had grown during the night. He buried his face in her shoulder and sighed heavily.

'Thank you, Llew.' he murmured, so low that she could scarcely hear him. Compressing her lips, Fallon pulled him to his feet.

'Compose yourself, M. le Comte, and drink more water. Spend as much time as you must at rest, and do not overdrink, next time you betake yourself to a tavern.' she winked jauntily, and bowed to Christine.

'Madame, I have obligations to my company. _Au revoir_.' turning, she left the room, and very soon, had left the house and gotten a fiacre to the Boulevard de'l Opéra.

i Translation:

Oh, my Lord, Oh my Prince! Bright visions crown their dreaming,

May thy spirit find rest in heav'n from earthly falsehood.

And may thy gentle soul soar through celestial realms.

Oh, have all its dreamland forms become reality!

Oh, my Lord! Oh.


	8. Arabella

Chapter Eight: Arabella

As I walked along the Rue St. Antoine, I basked in the late autumn sunlight, which warms without affecting the fresh sharpness in the air, indicative of the onset of winter. I watched along the street for a cab, but truly, I was not averse to walking for the hour or two required to obtain the opera house.

I was thoughtful, for the events of the previous night and the morning past had recalled to me emotions and impulses which I had long-hoarded, in the interests of self-preservation. My history with Raoul was a singular one, and the simplicity of feeling which I had invested in him, had now become something mystifying and complex, by virtue of the passage of time, and the manner after which he and I had last parted. Our friendship was one of the only relationships with a man I ever regretted having broken. Incidentally, it was also one of the only relationships with a man that was tacitly chaste, consisting solely of brotherhood and simple honesty.

There was a gentle breeze in the Parisian air, and, land-locked though it was, it was enough to bring to mind the day I had first seen Raoul, in Dover, when he had only just embarked upon his circumnavigation of the world in the Navy. I closed my eyes and inhaled, just for a moment, standing still in the street, and allowing myself to reflect, simply for nostalgia's sake. My indulgence was brought up short when a hand clasped round my forearm, and a bright, young voice exclaimed, 'Why, M. Avalbane! Whatever are you doing here?'

I turned round, my eyes opening to the sight of Mlle. Arabella Gustave. Her eager gaze clashed with mine, and I found myself profoundly annoyed with her. 'Yes, Mlle. Gustave?' I raised a brow, and stared belligerently at her. 'May I be of assistance?'

'I…I was shopping in the Faubourg St. Antoine, and I was…I…I never thought I would run into you, of all people, not this morning.'

'And whatever are you doing here, mademoiselle, so early in the morning, before practice, where you may trust neither fiacre nor your legs to carry you to the opera house in time for rehearsals?'

'Well,' she put her hands on her hips, and balanced the parcels she was carrying precariously under her arms, 'I might inquire the same of you, M. Avalbane, since you insist on being so rude.'

I blinked. She seemed quite nearly to have some fight beneath her vapid veneer. 'Beg pardon, my dear mademoiselle, but I am only a rough Irish provincial.' I held out my arms. 'Permit me to assist you in carrying these.'

'Oh. Thank you.' She smiled, and blushed prettily. 'Well, to answer you, M. Avalbane, I was early to rehearsals, if you _must_ know, and I was told to go home.'

'Go home?' my face must have betrayed my surprise, as she laughed charmingly.

'Why, yes. M. Capelle insisted that he have the _théatre_ for his rehearsals with the dancers. He accused poor M. Auvray of wishing the _corps ballet_ an ill opening.' I chuckled. Capelle's primary fault was in that he was far too free with his thoughts, which often brought a slough of controversy with the management.

'So then, the rehearsals are postponed?'

'To this afternoon.'

'I see.' I tucked the parcels she had given me under my arms, and we continued down the street. 'Then, whatever _am_ I to do?'

'You could luncheon with me.' Her voice was bold, yet all a-tremble. I narrowed my eyes at her, curiously, though not unkindly, and she seemed to shrink beneath my gaze. I could not restrain the smile that stole over my lips.

'Mlle. Gustave, are you certain your uncle would approve?'

'Of what? He respects you as an artist, and enjoys your company.'

'A respect which I doubt extends to trusting me alone with his favourite niece.'

'Well then, we shall have to rely on your gentlemanly conduct.' She sniffed. 'Besides, I am not his favourite niece, I am simply the only one who can sing.' I laughed. 'Have you eaten this morning, M. Avalbane?'

'In fact, I have just come from the house of a friend, and breakfasted with them.'

'Oh? And who might you know in the Rue. St. Antoine?'

I pressed a finger to my lips. 'Perhaps, Mlle. Gustave, it would be indiscreet for me to reveal their identity.' Her Cupid's bow of a mouth formed a silent 'oh' of surprise, and I could tell she assumed that I, a young and dashing star tenor, had spent the night and that morning at the residence of some pretty young girl. 'My friend, mademoiselle, is a wealthy noble toying with the idea of patronizing me, and should he alter his intentions, I should not wish to be embarrassed after it is spread through opera gossip.'

'I do not gossip, M. Avalbane.' I smothered a laugh. So far as I had heard from the ballerinas, Arabella Gustave was as great a busybody as the old box-keepers, who repeated everything to one another.

'I am certain that you are a lady of the highest moral standards.' I bowed to her. 'Where are we going, if you don't mind the inquiry?'

'The Chausée d'Antin. Number four.' She replied. I smiled.

'You could not have expected to carry all these parcels from here to the Chausée d'Antin!'

'No. I have a cab at this upcoming intersection. If you would accompany me perhaps fifty more yards, we will come to it. Ah, you see? There is the fiacre there!' she outstretched her dainty white hand and pointed toward a black cab hitched to a dun-coloured nag. Upon the driver's stage was perched an elderly fellow, apple-cheeked, whose sparkling grey eyes became visible as we neared him. His long white hair was combed back into a tail, and his powerful jaw was encircled by a hoar-frost beard, trimmed into a regular square. I trusted him immediately and instinctively, though I am afraid I aroused entirely dissimilar sentiments in him.

His eyes narrowed when he glimpsed me, and he began to speak in even, steady tones, his tongue lagging in a halting accent, almost German in its staccato harshness, revealing to me that he originated from the easterly borders of France. 'Mlle. Gustave, who is your pretty friend?'

'This is Fallon Avalbane, Père Gauchot. He is singing Edmond Dantès in _The Count of Monte Cristo_, the opera in which I am performing.'

'So you know him from the Garnier, then?'

'Yes.'

'And is he coming back to your uncle's house, as well?' he narrowed his eyes at me, and I fairly felt myself blush, as I might have under the disapproving gaze of a protective father. Arabella turned toward me.

'Well? Are you, M. Avalbane?'

'I do not see the purpose it would serve, mademoiselle. I am for the Boulevard de'l Opéra, and you the Chausée d'Antin.'

'Well.' Père Gauchot looked from me to Arabella, and made an inclination of his head. I opened the door to the fiacre, and placed her shopping inside, then took her hand and helped her in.

'I will see you this afternoon.' She murmured.

'My best wishes to your uncle, Mlle. Gustave.' I nodded, and, just as I let go of her hand, I felt a gentle pressure from her fingers.

'Of course.' She closed the door, and, as Père Gauchot gave me a final warning glance, the cab rattled off down the street. I waited until the vehicle was well out of sight before resuming my steps toward the Palais, more troubled than ever, with a silly twit of a girl added to my ruminations on Raoul.


	9. Nadir

Chapter Nine: Nadir

(Nadir POV)

She was standing without the dancer's quarters, watching Hyacinthe Renais' daguther, Anette, playing tea with her ragged dolls and cracked porcelain pots when I emerged from the fifth cellar in search of her face. Fallon had volunteered to care for Mme. Renais' younger child, while she was engaged in contractual negotiations with MM. Richard and Moncharmin. Her son, Georges, was ten years old, and could well entertain himself in the seventeen storeys of the opera house. It was silent, save for Anette's low, childish crooning of nonsense to her dolls, offering Mme. Ragamuffin more shortcake, and M. Bear-without-an-Ear more coffee. I watched Fallon silently for a few moments, without her detecting my presence. Her eyes were trained intently on the child, but I could tell that her mind was miles, perhaps years away.

I opened my mouth to speak her name, but her voice, low and soothing and exquisite in its miraculous ability to understate its own abundant emotions, caught me by surprise. 'M. le Persian,' I felt my lips respond involuntarily to the unmistakable smile in her voice.

'My name is Nadir Khan, Mlle. Avalbane, and you may feel at liberty to use it.'

'Of course. M. Khan.' She nodded, and turned toward me. Her eyes, the clear, lurid emerald of the sea, called to me, and I found that I could not look away. 'All the little dancers call you Nadir. I wonder whether I may take such casual liberties, as well.'

I forced my lips to sober, but I could not tear my eyes from hers. 'I see no reason to contravene such a wish, especially coming from such a charming creature as yourself. Only, allow me to call you after a similar fashion, for it is unseemly for friends to call one another by surnames.'

'And are we to be friends, M. Nadir?' her smile, again, I found irresistibly infectious.

'Indeed, we must be.' For a moment, we stood in silence, when she shook her head, and seemed to recall something.

'I would ask another favour of you, Nadir.' She reached forward, and pressed my arm.

'Whatever might it be?'

'I wonder, how impaired is your knowledge concerning the Comtesse de Chagny?'

'The Comtesse de Chagny!' I exclaimed. I was not expecting her to inquire after one of the only people who still bound me to the trap-door lover.

'Yes. Christine, née Daaé.' She seemed to calculate my expression in her mind, and I schooled myself to reveal no more than simple astonishment. 'To explain my curiosity, sir, it is because the other day, I happened upon the young count, her husband, inebriated in a public-house, and found myself moved with compassion for the unfortunate youth. I brought him to his house in a fiacre, and had some very fascinating chat with Mme. la Comtesse that night, and the next morning as well. That is why I did not return home until late in the afternoon, and nearly made myself late for rehearsals, because M. le Comte was violently ill. I had enough presence of mind to administer to him your miraculous tisane, a portion of which you gave me some time ago, and which I greatly appreciated.' She paused, and took breath. 'But I wonder, and doubt that I am wrong in this supposition, is Mme. de Chagny from a common origin? For she seemed far more…' she searched for a word, her eyes detaching from mine, and narrowing into the air, '…_human _than any born and bred noblewomen I have met.'

I nodded, and turned my face from hers, that she might not see whatever emotions I had no control over. She was startlingly perceptive when it came to the reading of faces, or so I had noted over several previous occasions, and I was in no humour to be the subject of her divinations. 'Mlle. Fallon, I fear you are too perceptive for your own health. The truth of the matter is—' I compressed my lips, and formulated the words in my mind before I allowed them spoken out loud. 'The truth of the matter is that Mme. de Chagny is the daughter of a penniless, though brilliant violinist, of Sweden. Her father died some years ago, of ill health, an indisposition of the lungs, I believe, leaving her to the care of their patroness, a Mme. Valerius, whom Mme. de Chagny considers her second mother.'

'And is this Mme. Valerius yet alive?'

'No. I am afraid she died shortly following Christine's marriage to M. de Chagny.' Internally, I berated myself for the use of the countess' given name, as Fallon would undoubtedly use it as a clue toward my intimacy with her, but she seemed to ignore my _faux pas_.

'What can you tell me, M. Nadir, of her involvement with the famous Phantom?'

I nearly closed my eyes in chagrin as she asked the inevitable question, but I was glad she had inquired so directly, rather than skillfully wheedling the information out of me. 'I can tell you nothing, mademoiselle, because it is not my secret.' I averted my eyes from hers.

'By all means, keep your honour. I simply wished to understand her better, for I find that she appeals to me.'

'She would appeal to you still more, were she to sing.'

'I have heard everywhere that she was exquisite. Even la Carlotta admits her superiority now, though she mentioned also that she had a genius of an instructor.' Something twisted in my belly as she shrugged up her shoulders in an obliviously elegant shrug. 'The ear of a violinist is very fine. M. Daaé must have had a joy of training his daughter.'

'Indeed.' I fell silent, wondering whether she knew more than she allowed herself to reveal. I felt her eyes trace the curve of my spine as I turned toward little Anette, who was still speaking in a low, crooning voice to her dolls. When I spoke next, the sound of my own voice startled me for its solemn gravity. 'Someday, Mlle. Fallon, I shall take you down to my house below the Garnier, and show you everything you wish to know. Now, it is enough that we have decided to be friends.' She seemed to agree with me, and nodded. 'Howbeit, mademoiselle, the whole opera is buzzing with gossip of you.' I said, rather sternly.

'Oh?' she pulled back her arm, which I now realized I had gripped suddenly. I relinquished it without protest, not wishing to appear threatening. 'And perhaps, M. Nadir, you are here to enlighten me to it, and advise me?'

'Well, since we were speaking of M. de Chagny, I had, in fact, come to inform you that there has been gossip concerning the fact that you and he were at a public-house together, as you said, and left in one another's company. However, you have told me of your own volition the facts of the matter, and I will only inquire whether what you have related to me was, in fact, all that transpired?'

'If you wish me to go into particulars, M. Nadir, you have no choice but to be utterly disappointed, firstly, because it is none of your business, and secondly, because I rather drank a bit as well, and my memory seems to have suffered for it.'

'A predictable enough difficulty.' I murmured, dissatisfied with her defensive line of conversation.

'M. Nadir, you have me at a dilemma.' She smiled a little, and took up a casual stance at my side, leaning against the wall.

'Pray, mademoiselle, tell me what your trouble is.'

'I know not, M. le Persian, whether to trust you or not.'

'Perhaps, Fallon, my word of honour will suffice to combat the effects of your drinking?'

'Perhaps.'

'You have my word, then, as Nadir Khan, and Allah strike me if I lie. You can trust me.'

'I have heard such protestations before, Nadir, only to have them dashed to pieces when it suited the man who swore.'

'Reflect, however, that I have no way to use any information against you. In fact, by explaining your reasons for rendezvous with the Comte de Chagny, you can only secure your reputation in my eyes. You see, I have a particular interest in seeing that the count and countess remain happy, and faithfully in love with one another.'

'Oh?' her voice betrayed her piqued curiosity, and I smiled.

'Mlle Fallon, I now have in my possession a secret which you are in need of. And vice versa. You give me yours, and I shall reveal mine.'

'Perhaps we _had_ better start trusting one another now.' I wondered what her words could mean, for they could have been twisted any number of ways. 'A moment, M. Nadir, allow me to turn petite Renais over to one of the dancers, and we will take a little promenade through the opera house.' She took the girl's hand, and whispered a few words to her, then disappeared into the dormitory. When she emerged, she said, 'It is well. Mlle. Voisin will watch her.' She took my arm, in a charmingly placating manner, and turned me round.

'If you intend to confide a secret of any merit in me, Fallon, perhaps it is best that I choose the location of your revelation. The walls, as you know, have ears in the Palais.'

'Of course.' She nodded, and offered me her arm chivalrously. I laughed. The gesture, entirely European, enacted by an enigmatic young woman under a masculine affectation, seemed to take on an oddly fitting connotation in this circumstance, and I accepted it. I led her away from the dormitories, up the winding staircases, and into the labyrinthine corridors of the Garnier. Upward, ever upward, I led her, brushing away the cob-webs as we traversed the more undisturbed vicinities, until we came out into the fresh midday air. The roof-top, as ever, was secluded, and I glanced round for any sign of life, that I might be certain of complete privacy.

'Here we are, then.' I turned to her, arms crossed over my chest. 'You may be assured that this is the most intimate and secluded spot in all of the Faubourg St. Germain, if not in Paris. Anything you have to tell me is assured complete confidentiality, and we may have a…how do the French say?—ah!—a tête-à-tête. There is no one here to overhear us.'

She took a turn round, glanced up at the statue of Apollo with a smile, and stopped at the balustrade, her eyes trained on the life below—the fiacres, pedestrians, coupes, and nonesuch crawling along as though at a snail's pace. Her steps were deliberate, her eyes reflective, and she recalled to mind nothing so much as a caged tiger, striding the length of her enclosure. 'An equal trade, then, _du stæm_?' she lapsed into Farsi.

'An equal trade.' I held out my hand, and she grasped it firmly. 'Now, then, Fallon, as I am a gentleman, I permit the lady first rights to speaking.'

She laughed a little, and leant on the balustrade. She looked out over the city, and uttered a sigh from the depths of her soul. Memories are weighty things.

'I was sixteen years of age when I met the Comte de Chagny,' she began, peremptorily. 'I was living in Dover, at the time, hiring myself to the underworld class as a thug-for-hire, underselling my talents as a mercenary. I had only been there four months, having previously spent three years in Greece fighting the Ottomans. I was dissolute, then, drinking far more than anyone should, least of all a lone young girl, unprovided for and certainly unspoken for. We met in a singular fashion, that is, I dragged him out of a fistfight with a man twice his size, and earned a black eye and sore ribs for myself.

'He was impressed with my bravery, and engaged me as his fencing-master, for his ship was putting in for a month. He was a strange and effeminate boy, only seven months my senior, but he had spirit, and some courage, and I contrived to give him enough skill, in so brief a time, as might save him from being run through in an unfortunate accident. When he disappeared, my rent went with him, and I found myself unable to sustain myself in a port metropolis, so I traveled, and after some months, having been through most of Europe, to India, where I ran into the Rabari, a secondary family of mine, and then back, I found myself in Venice, singing in the opera, as a woman, and their prima donna. I met the count again, and this time, when his ship left port, I was with him.

'We lived in Marseilles together for nearly a year—ah!—I see your eyes widen. Undeceive yourself, Nadir, we were never lovers. He was my charge, and I protected him. I was his sister, and he cared for me as such. I gave him freedom, and he gave me an anchor. We were close, of course, but then his brother called him back in a most despotic fashion. I came home one day to find everything a wreck, and only a purse of gold and a scribbled note remained. I never saw Raoul again until the dinner at his house, some time ago. I never knew of his nobility until then.'

'Is that so?' this information interested me greatly, but I feigned complacency, and shrugged up my shoulders.

'Indeed. And now, M. Nadir, he realizes that he has business out of France, and has broached the topic of his wife's welfare, for which he is greatly concerned. Raoul trusts me, and, what is more, he fears me. He has asked me, tentatively, whether I will look after Mme. la Comtesse in his absence, and has invited me to dine with himself and his wife tomorrow night, no doubt to iron out some irregularities.'

'Ah.'

'And now, Nadir, my friend, for friends we must be now that I have so trusted you, it is time for you to tell me what your interest in M. and Mme. de Chagny's marital contentment is. Perhaps you have a running bet with a friend of hers?' she laughed airily, and I smiled, though not because of her comedic merit. She was better than most at the game of dissimulation. When she had sobered, I cleared my throat, and looked out at the sky, darkened to fitful greys and browns, as heavy clouds threatened on the horizon.

'What I have to tell you, Fallon, is no joking matter. My interest is that it very nearly cost me my life to give those two children their happiness, and I am loathe to see it ruined by an impulsive affair.' I saw her smile, and puzzled at it.

'You do not know Raoul well. He is nothing if not exceedingly and scrupulously faithful. It would be impossible for the world's most accomplished ingénue, courtesan, or conjurer to defy his powers of responsibility. I beg you to trust me on this count.' She looked into my eyes, and she was either far more skillful at hiding her intentions than I had initially believed, or she was entirely sincere. 'Continue, please. I did not mean to interrupt. I only wished you to understand, for the future, the nature of the count's dedication.'

'You have heard of the Opera Ghost?'

'Yes.'

'From Cécile Jammes and the ballet girls, no doubt.' I rolled my eyes. 'They exaggerate. The short of it is that Erik, for that is the name of the phantom, fell in love with Christine, who was then singing in the chorus of the Palais. Well, Erik gave her singing lessons, and made her into a genius, but her heart was M. de Chagny's. Eventually, Erik forced her to choose between a horrible death and a horrible life. He would explode the Palais if she did not marry him. At this time, M. de Chagny and I were essaying to save her. As it turned out, she chose to sacrifice herself and marry Erik. He was astonished by her resolution, and allowed her to go free, and marry the man she truly loved.'

'Then it was not you, but Mme. de Chagny's devotion and heroism which saved everything.' She said, and I nodded solemnly. 'Ah, but that is not the whole of it?'

'No, indeed. It is not. What happened then was this: I had a letter from Mlle. Daaé perhaps a week previous to her elopement with Raoul, who was then the Vicomte de Chagny. In it she said that Erik had always occupied a particular place in her heart and soul, and that it was impossible to extricate herself from him. She felt that, in marrying Raoul, she was simply choosing the lot which fell to her, and when she had resolved to marry Erik, she had not been entirely unhappy. She said she, perhaps, was making a grave mistake, for Erik, owing to his great ugliness, would never find another woman to love him, while Raoul was a man of great personal charms, and any number of young ladies simply might adore him. She said that it was not fair to Erik to leave him despairing, when she really and truly felt she could love him.

'I, of course, recognized this for what it was—a childish recourse to committing to marriage, and safety. I spoke with Erik, and asked him what his pleasure was, for I felt that it was not fair to allow him to go ignorant of this sentiment on the part of the woman he loved, for I also maintained a certain guilt in previously attempting to separate them, if need be, by his death. He told me he had no desire to care for so fickle and flighty a wife as Mlle. Daaé, promptly faked his own death, and left France in haste. Had I not incited this decision, Christine might very easily have left Raoul and returned to him, whom she considers, to this day, to have been her first husband.' I turned toward her, and her eyes hitched on mine. 'You understand, Fallon, that Erik is quite mad, and would never have been capable of simply living life, as ordinary people do. He is an impulsive wanderer, and can only live as either an angel or a demon. Christine Daaé is really quite a simple creature, and could never have gotten along with him.'

'So, then, it was only a matter of compatibility which forced you to separate them, and consolidate the happiness of M. and Mme. de Chagny?'

'Partially. Otherwise, it is because the union could bring only more harm than good.'

'You speak strangely concerning this Erik, Nadir, and I do not mean to be rude, only frank. Do you allow me to speak quite plainly?'

'I not only give you leave, I entreat you only to do so, when circumstance permits.'

'Very well. If you are, or were intimate enough with Erik to suggest that he give up his only chance of love and satisfaction, run away and play dead, and yet, you speak of him as though he were a loathsome devil; what, then, was your relationship with him? For I am much confused.'

'As am I, for Erik easily confuses those who do not know him. Even then, he is as puzzling and intractable as a hieroglyphic, without, however, being quite as attractive.' I laughed a little, but at the end of my teeth, hoping she would say something, but she remained silent. I reached out and touched her shoulder, and she met my eyes again, gravely. 'Raoul de Chagny is going to Persia, to meet with Erik.' I was not asking. I had read in her eyes, and in my own nightmares, that which I had feared so greatly.

'He believes it is the only present recourse of action. Erik has asked to return to France.'

'And what has Christine said?'

'Mme. de Chagny knows nothing. Erik himself wrote to Raoul. That is all I know.'

'How soon will he leave?'

'I do not know yet.'

'You should accompany him.' I said quickly, the wheels of my mind spinning. I ran quickly, in my mind, over what I knew of her. 'You traveled with the Rabari, you said?'

'I did, and for some years, when I was a child.'

'Did you never see their couriers and shepherds with a hank of catgut, fashioned like a delicate sort of noose, with which they chased away jackals and sheep-stealing birds?' she nodded.

'The Punjab lasso. A deadly weapon, in the hands of a master. Mine were always too ungainly, and I preferred the sabre and spear.'

'Well, Erik is such a master in the use of the Punjab. Raoul is no match for him, and if he does not take especial care, Erik will not hesitate to use the lasso. No doubt the Shah-in-Shah is dead, and the little sultana rules, with her son. And then the little lioness, whom the daughter of Javed al-Dhevran insisted on christening, ah!—Erik's word is law in Persia today, I have no doubt of it, but he knows, yes, he knows.' My voice lowered to a whisper, as though I spoke to myself, and I could tell by her expression that she thought me mad, or at least very close, 'royalty is very fickle, and especially royal women. The son of Mohammed Shah Qajar will be as suspicious as his father.'

'I do not understand. Do you mean to say…' she began, but I held up my hand, effectively quelling the inquiries that were no doubt rising to her lips.

'Silence, Mlle. Fallon. Ah, you are curious, I know. But listen, I shall tell you. Perhaps you take it into your head that the little sultana was enamoured of Erik? No, undeceive yourself. She loved him very much, indeed, enough to entreat me for his life, but not enough to defy the Shah-in-Shah. Perhaps, however, she will challenge her son.' She blinked confusedly, and slid her hands against one another. I ground my teeth at her lack of response, for I had hoped to arouse a little temper in her, to gauge her tolerance and patience. 'Erik will not be content to drink tea with the little count in the gardens of Mazenderan, where he rules. He has told me that he has neither a wish to care for Mme. de Chagny as a wife, nor to see her again, but who knows? Once he has returned to France, and then to Paris, perhaps he will wish to see Christine. And then, once he has seen her, who is to say that he will not kidnap her, as he did so often before? It is an unwise thing to trifle with the lover of trap-doors, Fallon.'

'He will return to Paris, Nadir, that much is already decided. Raoul is going to Persia to set down the terms of this return, and, I assure you, he expects this Erik fellow to be entirely agreeable to all conditions and requests, one of which will inevitably be a restriction on his contact with Mme. de Chagny.'

'You do not know Erik.' I turned from her, and began to pace the rooftop. 'He is not a man of restraint.'

'Do you, then, know him so well?'

I was astonished that she would challenge me thus, but she had a legitimate point. Erik had often surprised me, with his singular propensity to heed to whims. He had, after all, scorned the sultana of Mazenderan, after her husband had died, in order to continue on training Christine Daaé's voice. I recalled the day I had, myself, been summoned back to Persia, and how elated I was at the prospect of returning to my native climes. And yet, when Erik had declined Hamraz al-Javed's invitation to return as her Favrasi—her magician and personal assassin and attendant, I knew that I could not leave him.

How ironic it was that I was now haunting the cellars of the Palais Garnier, while he flourished in the splendour of the little sultana.

'At supper tomorrow night,' her voice was gentle, and entreating. 'Raoul will tell me what he knows, and thinks, but I doubt he will allow me to accompany him. It will be too difficult for his pride, to be protected by a woman.'

'You have been a soldier!' I cursed the pride of nobles to hell in my mind.

'Yes, and I have protected myself, furthermore, for the better part of ten years. But Raoul could not impress upon Erik my redoubtability. Besides, I am unwilling to leave by my career in Paris, which is only burgeoning.' She inspected her nails, for they suddenly seemed very fascinating, and I knew then that were the Comte de Chagny to crook a finger, she would rush to his side through the most ferocious mêlée.

'You attempt to confound me by your coolness, Fallon, but I can see through you. You are afraid to be quite alone with Raoul de Chagny.'

'Undeceive yourself!' she turned abruptly toward me, eyes flashing. 'He and I have always been perfectly comfortable with one another.'

'Oh, mademoiselle, you harbour deep feelings for him. Perhaps not romantic ones, but you have love and resentment intermingled quite inextricably for M. de Chagny.'

'And if I do?' she shrugged, and I was satisfied to witness the recollection of her wits from the distress I had incurred. So she was not made of steel, after all. 'He deserves it. We did not part on the best of terms.'

'Ah. I believe our chat has been too frank for two unattached persons.' I smiled, and reached my hand out for hers, which she pliantly allowed me to take. 'We shall be friends, then, and loyal to one another.'

'Yes, let us.' She replied, but mechanically, as though she hoped I was as trustworthy as I allowed myself to appear. In fact, I hoped I was, for she was a woman who put me instantly at both the most complete and natural ease, but also encouraged a deep-seated fear of strange geniuses with far more depth than was instantly perceptible.

'But for now, Fallon, the evening grows chill, and there is a scent of rain. Come inside, then, and I will show you where you can summon my attention at a moment's notice, should you require it.' I offered her my arm after the same fashion she had offered me hers some time ago, and she followed me down from the roof, through passages she had undoubtedly never seen, and over floors padded with fabric and carpets, so as to deaden the sound of footsteps.

We traversed some staircases, but after one or two flights, I brought her to a secret elevator, a curiously-fashioned little chamber only large enough for accommodate three or four persons, and descended, by way of a mechanism operated by a rope, to the ground floor, and from thence, out of the elevator and then the secret hall, to the dressing-room of the prima donna. 'If ever you are in trouble, mademoiselle, look to the mirror.' I then displayed to her a mechanism with which the reader is no doubt familiar, by which to open a secret hall and enter the cellars. 'Here,' I showed her a trip wire, which must be avoided in order not to trigger an alarm in the house in the fifth cellar. 'If you would hide, you may step over it. However, if you are ever in any danger, trip it. No harm will come to you, and I will arrive within five or ten minutes.'

'Might I ever be in any trouble, Nadir?' she inquired, her sly smile lighting her siren's eyes with a stranger inner fire.

'I do not know, if Erik is to return.' I attempted to return her mirth, but failed. 'Well, Fallon, I believe we have understood one another sufficiently. Should I not see you before your supper with the de Chagny's, I wish you all the best.' I bowed to her, and she nodded.

'Thank you,' she murmured distractedly, closely examining the mirror and the pulleys and mechanisms upon which the mirror and various trips were located. Then, shaking her head, as though to bring herself back to life, she turned toward me, and extended her hand. 'Thank you, Nadir,' she murmured, and pressed my hand warmly when I gave it to her. 'I…I will give you your privacy now.' And she hurried away, leaving me, if not bewildered, at least somewhat troubled with her enigmatic departure.


	10. In Which we Discover Raoul's Backbone

Chapter Ten: In Which we Discover Raoul's Backbone

I was in the dormitories, braiding my hair and listening to the idle chatter of the little ballerinas of the corps, as they murmured gossip about their lovers and their pointe shoes, idly wondering whether I should stay in, or go out with Lucien to dine, when Sorelli rushed into the room, tears pouring from her brilliant eyes in a torrent. Half of the little dancers leapt to their feet in an effort to console her, but she fought her way to my bunk. Seizing me by the shoulders, she buried her face in my hair and whimpered, 'Tell me he hasn't really come to see you, Fallon! Oh, tell me he hasn't!' at this incomprehensible exclamation, I pried her away from my body and scanned her face.

'Sorelli, chère,' I brushed her tears away with my thumbs, and pressed my lips to her forehead, 'compose yourself, mon amour, please. Whoever are you speaking of?'

'The Comte de Chagny! Tell me he has not come to see you!'

I cleared my throat, realizing this appeared very awkward to the dancers. I knew that Sorelli had been the favourite of the late count, Raoul's elder brother, and that the scandal of Christine Daaé having married the viscount had been very harsh on the ballerina's pride. Should the dancers come to believe that I was having an affair with Raoul, things could become very difficult to explain. 'He may have,' I said slowly, and heard the collective intake of breath as the girls started in surprise.

'Why…why would he come to the Palais to see you?' Jammes, ever the tactless little sprite, raised her voice over Sorelli's weeping long enough to earn not a few glares from her companions.

'Well, you know that I ran into the count the other night while shooting billiards with Signor Lorenzi?' I paused. 'He became regrettably intoxicated, so I took it upon myself to return him to his house in the Rue St. Antoine. His wife promised to send him here, to thank me. I assume that is his purpose.'

'But he hates the opera house!' Sorelli cried, grasping me by the shoulders. 'Ever since he came last with Christine to collect her belongings! They say he fears the Ghost!'

'I will see what he wants of me.' Disengaging myself from Sorelli's cloying embrace, I left the dancers in their collective histrionic fits and headed into the foyer, when I was stopped by the secretary of M. Mercier, a nervous old fellow by the name of Albert Noroux.

'M. Avalbane! M. Avalbane, the Comte de Chagny is here to see you! He is in the offices of Messrs. Richard and Moncharmin!'

'Thank you, Albert.' I flicked ten sous at him, and dashed toward the main offices, where I found Raoul twisting his gloves, squirming in discomfort before the two general managers.

'M. Avalbane!' he cried joyfully, as I entered. 'I feared you had already gone out to dine!'

'Good evening M. le Comte. I trust your health is improved?

'Much, thanks your that swill you forced me to drink. Tell me, have you plans, or would you be very averse to coming to supper with my wife and I?'

'Monsieur, I received your invitation in the mail, and I believe I accepted to dine with you on Friday of next week.'

'I know, but I am certain you have heard of my strange caprices, and besides, I have received a letter which compels me to settle some business in the Orient much sooner than I had expected.'

'I am scarcely dressed to present myself to you, M. le Comte, much less your lovely wife.'

'Ah! I will wait for you to get a suit from your quarters, and you may perform your toilette at my home, before the countess sees you. My mind is greatly uneasy, and I feel the need to be diverted by a new and fascinating acquaintance who yet promises to be a good friend.'

I blinked. Raoul was being very forceful. I had never seen him so resolute, especially not toward me. How much had changed since he had left me in Marseilles and married his little chorus girl! 'M. le Comte…'

'Wonderful!' he exclaimed. I darted glances at M. Richard, who sat behind his desk with an expression of fatuous complacence on his face. Likely he hoped I would make a patron of the young aristocrat, as Christine had failed to do. 'My carriage is prepared to receive you, waiting on the street, at the doors. Choose a suit and come along!'

Bewildered, I stumbled out of the office and mechanically headed back to the dormitory, where I was instantly assailed with the eager inquiries of the ballet rats. It was all I could do to stammer, 'Mme. de Chagny invites me to supper.' This caused great bewilderment as I snatched an English suit from the communal armoire and headed outside, bee lining for the exit.

Raoul stood on the steps of the Garnier, his hat in his hand, looking expectantly toward me. 'Llew, I'm sorry. I had to.'

'You bloody fool!' I whispered, in English, 'You bloody fool. You haven't the first clue what "tact" is, have you? The deuce you received a damned letter! Sorelli thinks you're keeping me as a mistress, damn it, and if I say it is your wife who is interested in me, they will say she wants me as a lover. Or Fallon Avalbane, at any rate.'

'Whoever he is. Look, Llewellyn, I wouldn't have called if I didn't need you. I did receive another letter from Erik. It seems…' here we climbed into his coupe, 'it seems he has acquired a ward, and is desirous of removing her from some danger in Persia.'

'Her?' I laughed. 'So the unloved Opera Ghost, who has pined so long after a little Swedish opera singer, who has nearly died for her, and has certainly killed for her, has no sooner moved to Persia than he acquires a "ward." No doubt she is a Persian whore to whom he has taken a fancy.'

'As little as I myself knew Erik, I would not be so quick to calumniate him so.' Raoul replied thoughtfully. 'He writes of her as though she is young and rather helpless, as a man might write of his daughter or his sister. He is fond of her, no doubt, and gives the impression that her physical safety is in peril.'

'Perhaps he has, like myself, an affinity for intrigues.' I murmured.

'It is possible. But I wish, tonight, to inform Christine of your gender and acquaint her with both your attachment to me and the circumstances which force me to entrust her to my care.'

'You will, then, tell her about Erik?'

'No!' he exclaimed, a little hastily. 'No, Llew. It would go against his wishes, and her happiness. If she believes he has died loving her, then burying his corpse has absolved her of all guilt. She loves me, Llewellyn, but were she to believe that he were alive, I do not say…her sense of honour may lead her to commit some foolhardy act of self-sacrifice, when there is nothing to be gained.'

I shrugged. Poor, selfish, blind Raoul. Well, so be it. I nodded. 'I suppose, if you must rush off so precipitously. But will she not suspect some strange affinity between us, if you tell her that we once lived under the same roof for nearly a year?'

'It is better that I tell her, rather than for her to be told by another.' He clanked worriedly at me. 'You have changed, Llewellyn. I fear to be frank with you now, though my heart is still much inclined to you.'

I felt myself soften at his words, and some of the bitterness I had always entertained toward him melted a little. I took his hand. 'Raoul, my brother, you have not any need to fear my confidence, for there is no safer or more discreet bank-vault for your secrets than my mind. I have missed you, mon ami.'

'Do you trust me, Llew, now that my affections and interests are invested in things other than your entertainment? Now that I've a wife and a county, and an inheritance? Can you believe that a landed count will not betray you as easily as you believed a provincial navy bilge-rat would not? Can you love me as you did in Marseilles, when I was nothing but a raw callant in your palm?'

'I never controlled you, Raoul. I advised you, yes, and looked for you safety, but I never controlled you. We are two human creatures, whose interests took them apart for a time. Now, I have agreed to look after your interests, namely, your wife, while you go attempt to get yourself hanged in Persia. Our interests, as friends, are now essentially the same. I have willed it.'

'Have you?' he sighed deeply, and I felt the weight of my commitment to him grow heavy with the feeling contained therein. 'I feel I have grown old, Llew. Once, I would have been able to simply run away from it all—Philippe, my responsibilities; I even ran away from the expedition to the north in order to marry Christine. Now that there comes a new responsibility to see to, well…I do not say that I would ever leave her, for I love her more than life, but if I could do anything to avoid dealing with her past…'

'Raoul, I know I advised you to confront this ghost before he could come to France, but perhaps it would be better to simply write to him and accept his promise to leave you and your wife in peace, and allow him to return, eliminating the need for physical interaction.'

'No. You were right, and when you advised me, I had already been entertaining the idea of meeting with Erik in Persia. Your advice only cemented the thoughts already churning in my mind. I am simply unsettled.' He sighed, and removed his hand from mine. 'Llewellyn, I trust you to take care of my wife, and to entertain her, as formerly you entertained me.'

I laughed. 'So you wish me to take your wife round to public houses and introduce her to loose women?'

He blushed. 'You are a versatile creature. I have seen you go from the battlefield to the aristocratic drawing room, and from there to the stage, without batting an eyelash. You are as acclimated to bullets and sword-thrusts as to music-notes, and as easy on a fairground as in a ballroom. Do not protest, you know it is so.'

'And yet, Raoul, wherever I go, I am always a curiosity. I have been too many places to belong in one, exclusively. When in the west, I am too Oriental, and when in the Orient, I am fair and green-eyed. You may be right, I may hide myself enough to merit the title of a social chameleon, but I will never truly have a single colour, so to speak.'

'Do you mourn for a loss of identity, Llewellyn?' he asked wistfully. 'I would give anything for your talent, your smoke-like versatility, your steel soul.'

'I am not strong, Raoul. I am a farce, through and through.'

'And yet you love me enough to risk taking a bullet or a blow for my sake. At least you did, once.'

'Yes. You are right!' I sighed. 'Perhaps there is some soul in me, after all.' Then, forcing a smile, I affected a laugh. 'But let us cease philosophizing! We shall make very sorry entertainers for Christine's sake if we continue in this melancholy vein, and she will forbid us to see one another, for fear that I will cause your smiles to fade to frowns upon conversing with me.'

'You are a fool.' He rolled his eyes. 'How can you command me to be merry and give me yet no cause to be?'

'Patience, patience, little count.' I laughed, and pressed his hand. 'But here we are, then.' I glanced out the window, and back into his eyes. The number on the de Chagny's door gleamed almost balefully. He shifted his hand, so it covered mine.


	11. Of Letters and Coffee

Chapter Eleven: Of Letters and Coffee

'Well, Llew, it's time.'

'Yes, of course. So, how quickly will you tell her I am a woman? Will you say, "Darling, I am here with M. Avalbane, who is really M. Cardiff, who is really Mlle. Montgomery"? Or will you give me a chance to have tea and flirt with her?'

'We must not have it in the presence of the servants. They will cause far too much sensationalism. Besides, Christine may read it out of your beautiful eyes herself.'

I laughed. 'There are few indeed who could boast of determining such a thing. Howbeit, let us away, and our nerves will steel themselves.' We exited the coupé, and he led me up the steps and into his house. The antechamber, as I noticed this time, was filled with the scent of orange-oil, and bouquets of flowers—roses, tuberoses, hyacinths, and heliotropes. There was a record playing on a gramophone in the corner, a selection from the Euryanthe, an exquisite piece, and one of my favourites.

Raoul took my bag, and led me upstairs, to the same room I had slept in the night he had confided his troubles in me at the tavern. 'You may dress in here, and I will return with my toilette—some combs and pomatum for your hair, and cologne, if you would like.'

'Thank you, my friend.'

'Christine should be busy dressing, so she will not be aware of either of us for perhaps another hour. Supper will be soon.'

I pressed his hand before he left. 'You are a dear.' He smiled faintly, and retired. I unpacked the suit I had brought, an English cut this time, which narrowed my hips, and squared my shoulders. When Raoul returned with his toilette, I let fall my hair, combed it briskly, and braided it into a single, efficient rope as thick as a small woman's wrist. Opening a makeup kit I carried, I smeared colour on my brow and cheeks, so I seemed a little darker than I was, used a crème on my lips to neutralize their natural redness, and tied on my cravat.

Placing my personal items in my satchel, I tentatively opened the door and stepped out into the hall. Betaking myself to the parlour was no difficult thing, and I amused myself with the grand piano in the corner, sitting and picking out gipsy dances as best I could from so conservative an instrument. The result was a strange, over frequent patter of notes, and I very soon settled into imitating pieces from Monte Cristo, finding the piano far better suited to European timings and modes.

At a footstep behind me, I turned, without, however, stopping my playing. It was a maid, a girl of perhaps fifteen or sixteen, wringing her hands nervously. I lifted myself from the bench. 'Monsieur?'

'Yes?'

"M. le Comte has requested your presence in his office.'

'Of course, mademoiselle. I am at M. le Comte's service.' I bowed, and she led me down the hall, to a room filled with oak and books, sturdy shelves and decorative plaques, with the head of an eight-tined stag above the fireplace, and several fox brushes pinned to a burnished bronze plate. Raoul sat behind a solid, masculine desk, with an open letter in his hand. The maid bobbed and retreated.

'Would you like some scotch, Llew?' he inquired, going to a glass case, containing a bottle and some glasses.

'Please.' He poured me a snifter, but took none himself, instead lighting a cigar..

'I want you to read something.' He extended the letter he had been reading, and I took it. It was penned in a spidery, uncertain hand, with some letters far larger than others, and some too small, as though a child had painstakingly copied the handwriting of a parent.

'It is written with the left hand,' I said quickly, 'that the true handwriting on the author might be hidden.'

'It is from Erik. Read it.'

'Raoul, this is a personal communiqué from a singular creature.'

'Please. Read it.'

Despite my misgivings, his eyes were so serious and liquidly blue that I relented, smoothing it open and scanning the words. I reproduce it here verbatim, for the letter was bequeathed to me later in trust:

'My dear little Vicomte,

'Guess who? Indeed, it is your friend, Erik, now resident of Persia, who has been your most respectful ally since the day of your marriage to my little prima donna.

'I have written you a letter already, which I know you have received, and which I hope you have not allowed your wife to catch wind of. I am in Mazenderan, a guest of the Palace of Mirrors, for which, I believe I have told you, I was nearly killed.

'It seems as though my life, again, is to be forfeit, and that of my ward, if I am not clear of Persia, and even of the Orient, within a matter of weeks. It would mean a great deal to me if you were to quickly make up your mind concerning my residence in Paris, as it is only fair of you to give me the sign with your thumb, by which you may condemn me to death, as in the past, or restore me to life, as you have also done.

'Believe me, monsieur, I have little respect for my own skin, but it seems as though I no longer own myself. As strange as it may seem to you, I am finally loved, and loved for myself indeed. You may trust that I will comport myself upon French soil as though I still remained in Persia; I shall be as silent as a corpse, and as discrete as the grave.

'I remain, your obedient servant,

'Erik, O.G.

'Post Script:

'Time is running out for me, and my little sultana.'

I glanced up at Raoul. He was staring out the window, in an attitude which I had once mistaken for wistful abstraction, but which I now realized was rather more a way to disguise anxiousness and fear. I set the letter on his desk and sipped at my scotch. 'Raoul, what do you mean to do?'

'Leave, straightaway. I have already determined that Christine is entirely disinterested in business matters, and will trust me when I say I must be going for some time. It is likely that she will not even inquire after my destination. But Llewellyn, I will not be the cause of an innocent child's death, even if I felt it possible, as I do not, to sanction that of the Ghost.'

'Then it remains merely to see how Christine will react to me.'

'I suppose.' He waved a hand elegantly, the fragrant smoke from his cigar hanging ornately in the air before dissipating. 'I have bought a train ticket to Teheran already, Llew. From there, it is a simple matter to take a camel or horse to Mazenderan.'

'When does it leave?'

'The day after tomorrow.'

'Then you would have me installed here…'

'Tonight, if all goes well.'

'Tonight! Raoul, this is perhaps the fourth time I have met your wife. It is ridiculous—'

'She will do as I ask her, if she sees the urgency of my situation. And I doubt she will having any great wish to live in this great empty manse alone.'

'Then you must allow me to be absent when you convince her.'

'Why?'

'For both her sake, as well as yours.'

'I do not believe I understand.'

'Should she wish to protest liberally, she may do it in privacy.'

'So it is, then, a simple matter of politesse, then?'

'After a fashion. It is a social nicety I acquired in Greece, and I have found it to be of great use everywhere else. There is no need to be present at a state meeting when one has the free mind of the pasha.'

'So I am, then, your pasha?' Raoul's eyes glimmered sadly, and I allowed him to lighten the mood.

'I suppose you would be, vaselias.' I laughed and made a ridiculous obeisance.

'Very well, very well.' He returned my smile, a genuine one this time, and inhaled deeply from his cigar. 'Come along. Let us to supper.' I threw back the rest of my drink, set the snifter on his desk, and nodded.

'I am at M. le Comte's disposal.'

We entered the dining room, filled with delicious scents of food and wine, coffee and pastries. The countess was already in attendance, sitting at the table, and as we entered, she bestowed upon us, or rather, upon Raoul, a brilliant smile. 'I was about to send for you, Raoul.'

'And I was about to make apologies for my tardiness.' He kissed her hand, and I bowed to her.

'Why, M. Avalbane, I was not aware that you were dining with us tonight. I thought our appointment was not for some days yet.'

'I invited him tonight, chère,' Raoul said, 'for reasons which will become quite transparent very soon.'

'As you wish.' She seated herself delicately, and Raoul and I followed suit.

During supper, we discussed very little. In fact, much of what I said was opera gossip, with the countess sighing nostalgically for her friends. When it came time for coffee, we retired to the parlour. Christine did not drink coffee, instead taking her tea as the Russians do, with lemon and honey. Raoul took his iced, with sugar and milk, but I had a craving for the Eastern, and took mine à la Turque.

'I admit, M. Avalbane, you have taken us all by surprise,' Christine said, in her charming Swedish accent, 'you have not even performed, yet there has already been an article in _Le Figaro_ concerning the handsome young Irish tenor who will sing Dantès in Voretti's new triumph. Apparently, it has come out that you are quite the talent.'

'The author seems well informed, Mme. la Comtesse.' I bowed my head, sipped my _kahvese_.

'There will be no false modesty from M. Avalbane, my dear.' Raoul smiled. 'I admit I was transfixed when I heard her sing a simple passage, and her credentials seem in quite excellent order, as Messrs. Moncharmin and Richard assure me.'

'And what does M. Mercier say?"

I regarded the countess with a wry glance. So, she knew very well what the Palais had turned into. 'M. Mercier agrees with them, my dear. And with me, when I say I am certain we will have no trouble contributing to the rising of so brilliant a star.'

'M. le Comte, you flatter me.' I bowed from my chair, and I detected something in his eyes that caused me to pause. 'However, as you are being frank, allow me to return the favour.' I searched his face for a reply to my offered gambit, and he nodded, ever so slightly. 'Madame, I believe you, of all people, will be grateful for this honesty on my part.'

'Whatever are you speaking of, my dear M. Avalbane?'

'Perhaps it would be best if you were to call me by my proper appellation, that is, "mademoiselle."' I smiled, and sat back, waiting for her reaction. She blinked, and stared.

'I…I am afraid I do not understand you, sir.'

'I am a woman, Mme. La Comtesse.' I smiled, sphinx-like, at her quandary.

'I am at a loss.' She stammered, but, admirably enough, neither paled nor fainted, as I had seen all too many women do.

'I applied at the Palais Garnier, with my papers from the Venetian opera, where I spent some three months there, as their leading contralto. They had a student from the National Society of the Arts there to transpose the leading soprano pieces into my range. I was quite the curiosity.' I smiled at the memory of that first, sudden catapult into the public eye. Oh, I had been quite famous before, in several various countries, but never as a musician, or a chanteuse. I had basked in the attention with all the earnest languor of my sixteen years. 'When I arrived here, in Paris, I was informed by M. Moncharmin that I was of no interest to the Palais, but I insisted upon seeing M. Mercier, as I was given a tip by a good friend of mine that he was the true administrative power behind the Garnier. He recognised me as a skilful singer, and immediately offered me a billet, not as their leading prima donna, but as their tenor, should I like the place. You were called in to confirm my presence, as they did not wish to risk the fury of their phantom, however deceased, and I am glad to say, madame, that your opinion was only positive. Therefore, here I am.'

The countess, who had been quite still and cool throughout my brief narrative, suddenly grew pale at the mention of the phantom, and I felt, rather than saw Raoul's displeased glance at me. 'Oh? And what, precisely, has this to do with us?' she took her husband's hand, her eyes filled with trepidation.

'Oh, nothing, besides what M. le Comte has now to say to you, and for which I shall retire.'

'There is more to the story, _mon amour_, than Mlle. Avalbane has told you.'

'Oh?'

'Yes.' I said, replying for him, rising, and bowing. 'But I will retire, as this conversation is of a peculiarly singular nature, and I recognise the necessity of a tête-à-tête between you.' I looked at Raoul briefly, and he nodded, his eyes communicating nothing. So, he had also learnt something of restraint since I had known him well.

I wandered out into the hall and back into the parlour, hoping for something, I know not what.


	12. Further Alterations

Chapter Twelve: Further Alterations

It was three quarters of an hour before I was recalled into the presence of the de Chagnys. Raoul came to the anteroom, where was I standing, nervously smoking my last cigarette. 'Well?' I glanced up at him, noting the gentle creases around his eyes, indicating anxious tension. 'Well?' I said again, a little piqued. 'What has your lovely wife said to our old friendship?'

He bit his lips in confusion. 'She has said very little concerning you. Only, she has suddenly wished to know where I am off to, and how long I intend to stay. Certainly, it is difficult to tell her that I am going to Persia, but as my brother had interests in a train through Teheran, I have convinced her that our stock there is in some peril. You are to tell her no more, and say that I have not educated me as to my purpose in the Orient. You do not even know I am going to Persia.'

'She has, then, consented to my presence here?'

'She has consented to whatever I feel is right. I have told her that it is as much for your benefit as for hers, and she believes that I am simply doing an old friend a favour. We are to be your patrons, me, in particular, as it would cause something of a scandal should Paris know that the Garnier's leading tenor is housing with the Comtesse de Chagny. If you like, I will send some servants to the opera house to collect your things.'

'It is not needful. I have all that I need here, tonight, and tomorrow I will go myself.'

'Are there any letters you might require, before I leave?'

'I may need something to explain myself to the opera managers.'

'And the dancers?'

'The dancers will wonder and gossip whatever I tell them. Best to leave it a mystery. Besides, what is said in the managers' offices will trickle down to them eventually. There is safety in relative ambiguity.'

'You are right, of course, you are right.' He wrung his hands with a shudder, and I took him by the forearm, gently, but with enough force to catch his attention.

'Raoul, _mon frère_, you must not worry. I will see to her safety, put her entirely at ease, and keep her company capitally. You know I am capable of it.'

'I know.'

'And you will be subtle and unthreatening in Persia to this Erik character, yes?'

'I do not know how I ever thought I could threaten him.' He shuddered again, and my hands slid down to cradle his. 'I will tell you all someday, but our trust…it is too raw.'

'I agree.' I smiled, and drew one of his hands upward, to imprint a kiss on it. 'You will do well, _mon ami_.'

'I _must_ do well, or my life is in peril. I care nothing for my own skin, but Christine…she is everything to me.'

'You asked me here for a reason, Raoul. You trust me, even if you are not certain of my motives. I have sworn myself to you again, as I once did, and you can count on my word, if you can count on anything.'

'I have seen you forsworn to others.'

'It is because I did not value them. You know I value you, Raoul, for if I did not, I would not have come to the library that evening of your soirée. I would have avoided you like the plague, affected not to recognize you.'

'Thank you, Llewellyn.' He whispered earnestly. 'Come along, then, there are a million questions Christine has for you, most of them about the little ballet rats. She is such a gossip, you know.' He smiled fondly, and I wondered how such a naïve ingénue had gotten his interest, when all the art of the most celebrated beauties in Venice and Marseilles had left him cold.

We re entered the parlour, where Christine was sitting, her tea in her hands. I noticed, at the first, that she was still very pale, but attempting to put on a brave display for the sake of her husband. I bowed as she looked up at me, but she rose, and took my hands. 'Oh, you must not, mademoiselle!' she exclaimed. 'After all that my dear Raoul has told me, it is I who is indebted to you!'

'I was afraid I might be imposing upon you, my lady.'

'No, not at all! I am delighted to have someone to share all my secrets with while my husband is gone. You know, I had the distinct sensation, the moment I saw you at the Palais, that I should like you very much as a performer. Now I have the chance to like you very much as an individual!'

'Thank you, Mme. La Comtesse.'

'Oh, none of that. I have said already, I am Christine to you, my dear! And if you permit, I shall call you…however you like.'

'My _nom de guerre_ of the moment will do.'

'Come, then, you will be installed here tonight, and then, however you like, your things can be brought over tomorrow.'

'I will collect them myself. I do not wish to trouble your household.'

'It is no trouble, but I understand your wish for privacy.' She said, and I was impressed with her instincts. I had no love of my things being rooted through by a herd of curious servants, and there were many rather incriminating papers in my belongings that I had no wish to be brought to light. 'There are things in my own past that I had rather were laid in a very deep grave, but I am sure you were educated wholly in my story by Sorelli and little Giry.'

'It was actually petite Jammes who told me a fantastic story about a skeleton in a suit, who carried you off to faery land and taught you to sing so beautifully.'

'Ah, but you have never heard me, my dear.' She chided, and I glanced at Raoul.

'It is because, Llew,' he said quickly, 'that my wife has a very delicate constitution, and I have no wish for her to put strain on herself by singing.'

'And it is such a gauche thing for a countess to do.' Christine said, almost regretfully. 'But you and I shall have such lovely duets, don't you think, Raoul?' she clapped her little hands, and was, for a moment, almost childlike in her delight. I knew I should have no trouble at all entertaining her.

'Well, my love,' Raoul leant forward to kiss his bride's forehead, 'I must make preparations for my journey. I will leave you and Llew—Fallon here to entertain one another, as I am certain you will have no trouble doing. Ask her to tell you about the gipsies. There is a wealth of stories such as you have never heard, and which make our own adventures seem like a stroll through the Luxembourg on a midsummer afternoon.'

'Ah, so you are an adventuress!' Christine seized me by the hand. 'We shall have such a time. And once Raoul is gone, I shall have a ball welcoming you into my household.'

'Will people not talk?' I inquired. 'Will they not say, "ah, the newlywed Comtesse de Chagny has tired already with her noble husband, and has taken the mysterious tenor of the Palais as a lover, and wishes to show him off to us."'

'People will say what they will.' She murmured, with something very much like a determined snarl, 'But there will be more talk if there is no ball. They will all believe I am attempting to hide you. Besides, you need more exposure to Paris, if you are to cultivate a social circle. Perhaps there will be more patrons on the horizon.'

'Perhaps.'

'Well then come; let us draw up a list of invitees.' She rang for a valet, and ordered stationery. She was a quick, bird-like little woman, so pale and charming, with nothing of the heavy-handed meticulousness of her Scandinavian ancestry, though there was a fierce determination in her carriage that betrayed her Viking heritage. I sat beside her, and watched the wheels in her head churn, wondering what I had allowed Raoul to get me into this time.

I do not say I was astonished at the speed with which Raoul had a valise packed, and prepared letters of credit upon various Oriental banks. I expected that he had learnt well how to care for himself, though witnessing it firsthand was strange, and something like watching an unfamiliar stage show. I remembered well Raoul the youth, at seventeen years of age, hesitant to speak to a strange woman, but all too ready to draw his sword in defence of her honour, however dubious. I recalled his charming, aristocratic naïveté, which drew so many eyes to him, and could not associate that pale boy with this man of two and twenty, married, moustached, and so utterly controlled.

I said as much to Christine in passing, as she watched me divest my face of the crèmes and colours that gave me the enhanced appearance of masculinity. We were in what were to be my quarters for the duration of my stay in the Rue St. Antoine.

'Well,' she said, 'it is a fact that not a year has gone by but that he was the very same trembling youth that you remember.' She spoke haltingly, as though secrets were being wrested from her which she had no control to hide any longer.

'How do you mean?'

'I mean that the circumstances surrounding our marriage have turned my husband from a boy into a man.' She glanced up at me from beneath her lashes. 'Doubtless he has told you the entire story, or you have had it from those little gossips at the Garnier?'

'I have had mysteries—a skeleton in a suit, a ghost in the shape of a horse, a house in the cellars of the opera house, beds shaped like coffins, masquerades à la Edgar Allan Poe, magicked nooses…things which have no merit in reality.'

'Oh, they have merit.' She murmured bitterly, and I sensed that Raoul's charming little wife had an edge of darkness around her. She refused to meet my eyes. 'They have much merit. But I am astonished that Raoul has said nothing of it.'

'He may have mentioned a few particulars, but they do not seem outstanding to me.' I did not know how far Raoul wished her understanding of my knowledge, and committed myself to nothing.

'Perhaps some day, after we are very good friends, and trust one another, I will tell you. It is not a tale to be said lightly. I shall have to summon all my courage to recount it, for it rather scathes my nerves to think on it.' She seemed suddenly to gather all her effort, and replaced a smile before the clouds gathering over her brow. 'Well, Fallon, dear, you must tell me, for I admit, I am intrigued to know, how many of my friends at the Garnier have been keeping your identity from me?'

'As for my identity, Christine, it has been altered so precipitously so many times that I scarcely myself recall the veracity of it. My gender, however, is another matter entirely. The _corps de ballet_ knows, as do all the managers. I cannot speak for peeking stagehands, but I have been careful in the past, and I do not believe stagehands bother to peek in on leading tenors quite so frequently as they do the ballerinas.' And I smiled blandly, wondering at her acceptance of all that I was, so quickly, without restraint, and her willingness to give me her friendship.

'Christine?' Raoul's voice from the doorway startled her, but I had heard his footsteps, crossing the hall in his slippers, and I had waited for him to speak, as he watched us exchanging pleasantries.

'Raoul,' a smile blossomed on her delicate features, with their straight, long cheekbones and bright eyes, as blue as a Swedish summer lake. Her delight at seeing him was apparent, but I knew the tightness at the corners of her lips. She was worrying already for his safekeeping, and I knew then that he had fought through hell to make her his.

'I am leaving within the hour, darling.' He drew her toward himself, and their hands met, without meaning to. They were oblivious, suddenly, of my presence, and I felt as though I had encroached my person upon them. I looked at my hands, and wiped my fingers against one another, removing the last of the crème still smeared across them.

'Oh, Raoul!—promise me you will be safe!' she exclaimed, burying her face in his shoulder, and I turned away, moving toward the vanity at an angle to the door, with a placement that I might study what conspired between them, without, however, their detecting it. I, of course, had no intention of watching them, and ran my hands across the tabletop, on which was a smattering of cologne and pomatum, some tooth-powder and a small set of theatrical makeup, only the last of which belonged to me. I tuned out Raoul and Christine's amorous murmurs, forcing my mind to bring to the forefront my lines from the opera, my marks on the stage, where I would stand, and how I would move in order to avoid the dancers.

I was returned to the present by Raoul's voice speaking my name. 'Llew,' he spoke a little loudly for my taste, and I could tell he meant to imply some hidden meaning by the words he spoke next. 'Do behave.'

Fighting the urge to blush, I nodded curtly. 'Do be safe.' They were words we had spoken long ago, upon parting for the last time, when I had struggled past Count Philippe's valets to see the youth I considered closer than a brother. The only difference was that when last we had said this, it had been in a tone of enforced formality, with an edge of cruel irony. The present sincerity in his voice was palpable, and I was momentarily overcome by the beauty of our renewed friendship. He closed his eyes for a moment, and it was as though our hearts again beat the same as in the old days, beneath the Marseilles sun.

And then, with a glance at his wife, and a military tap of his heels, he was gone.


	13. One and a Half Tales of Schehera Zade

Chapter Thirteen: One and a Half Tales of Schehera-Zade

I must admit, I was favourably impressed by Christine's buoyancy of spirit after Raoul took his leave. He had planned it specifically, that she would not go to the station with him, giving me a chance to distract her from gloominess, preventing her brooding during the carriage ride back to the house.

It was as though she could feel his presence leave. I know for certain that she was in the kitchens ordering the next day's menu when he departed, but not two minutes after the clatter of the carriage passed the window of the music-room in which I sat, admiring all the beautifully ornate instruments, that she was at my side. Her blue eyes were unbearably melancholy, the colour of the Dead Sea, though her lips were set determinedly in a charming smile.

'Fallon, my dear!' she seized my arm in her hands, and brought me excitedly toward the settee. 'Sit, sit with me. I have you all to myself. The star of the opera, my own music-box.' She laughed, and I laughed with her, as I knew the joke all too well. It was a common jest in the Garnier, among veteran singers who knew what it was to have a patron, and often decried when aristocrats behaved as though they were nothing more than a music-box or expensive instrument.

'My dear Mme la Comtesse, I do not believe I could resist your charm should you indeed make me such a creature, subject entirely to your whimsy.'

'Oh, Fallon, you must leave by flirting with me, or I shall have no choice but to be in love with you. No, no, with me you are a woman, entirely yourself. With me, we shall have so much fun scandalising the neighbours. Oh, what will they say when they know the first tenor of the Garnier is staying with its former diva? I am so pleased. You know, I have not played a joke like this since I was a little chorus girl, stealing the prima ballerina's pointes with the ballet rats.'

I reached into my jacket and produced a cigarette. 'Surely you do not mind if I smoke?'

'Of course not. Raoul has those wretched cigars of his, which give off such a dreadful fume.'

'I assure you, my dear Christine,' I placed the roll of paper and tobacco between my lips, and searched for a match in my pockets, 'these are made with the finest Turkish tobacco, flavoured with the finest wines, and given a scent of cherries.' I discovered a box with three remaining matches, lit one, and an ember at the tip of my cigarette came flaring to life. The first rush of smoke in my lungs was a soothing balm to my nerves, and I sat back, studying the countess with an objective eye. She was young, younger than Raoul, younger than I. She could not, in fact, have been more than nineteen, in the first blossom of true beauty, and ten years would only ripen her perfection. I remembered, fleetingly, my own nineteenth year. I was penniless, in India, travelling with the Rabari, wondering fleetingly whether I should return to the west, and to the career so hesitantly begun and so abruptly ended.

It was more than two or three years that separated Christine and I—it was miles of distance and thousands of people. Our common ground consisted of a young nobleman and a building in the slough of the Faubourg St. Germain. I sighed, taking another breath from the nectar-sweet cigarette. I have founded a strong relationship on less than that, in the past.

'I wish to ask you, Christine,' I returned my attention to her, 'what your fancies are, now that you are the wife of a wealthy man.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'You must have developed some new tastes since your marriage.'

'I have had a time managing the affairs which pertain to the wife of a nobleman.' She shrugged. 'Surely, your duties were in some way similar when you lived with Raoul in Marseilles?' I heard the unasked question in her voice, and smiled to think that she was still gauche enough to phrase it aloud, even so delicately.

'They were no such thing,' I replied, 'Raoul and I lived as brothers, as Bohemians. We were careless, and certainly did not eat every day. We had a maid to clean house, thrice a week, and on those occasions she cooked supper for us. We were mad,' I chuckled, fondly recalling the times of idling, sitting on a pier chatting with the Catalans as they cast their fishing-nets into the sea, Raoul listening at my side, attempting to follow the dialect with the aid of his school-taught Castilian Spanish, while I smoke and drank and cursed like any youth of eighteen. I recalled the days of work, teaching the children of the Marseillaise aristocracy, as well as the young of the merchant class—the talentless girls who only learnt to satisfy their parents' wish that they become the wives of Parisian fops, the boys with strange, artistic streaks, and then, there was Raoul. He had often wished me to teach him an instrument, as I had taught him the deeper elements of fencing, and I did finally succeed in forcing a few piano phrases from him, despite his undoubted hopelessness of ever being a musician.

Perhaps my answer, and the ensuing reverie I sank into was far less soothing to Christine's worries than it should have been. She knit her brow, and I could feel that she longed to voice another question.

'You must not,' I ventured, 'believe that I looked out to protect your poor husband's virtue.' She reddened. 'I did my utmost to introduce him to all the charming girls of my acquaintance—the Catalanes, with their eyes saying all, and yet nothing, gipsy girls, fiery dancers, even Provençale girls, florid and fresh-faced, but always he told me a story, the same he told me at our first meeting in Dover, where I earned a black eye and sore ribs defending him.'

'And what story was that?' I saw her eyes make the subtle shift between suspicion and curiosity.

'It was about a girl, when he was very young, at a beach in Perros-Guirec, for whom he had defied his governess, and charged into the sea to recover her scarf.' She blushed. 'You need not fear that your husband has any feeling beside brotherly affection for me. He is noble, and not merely an aristocrat.

'Oh, Fallon!' Christine clasped my hands beseechingly. 'Do not think me evil for having doubts!'

'You do not yet know me, my dear,' I sighed, raising her fingers to my lips. 'You do not know me yet.'

'Of a certainty, we must get to know one another quite intimately. But first, you must feel the inconvenience of your personal effects not being present.'

'I can take a fiacre to the Boulevard de'l Opéra to fetch them.'

'That would be a superfluous effort on your part. Rather, tell me, is there anyone who will know all your things from the others', and whom you can trust not to steal from you?'

'I have precious little for a ballet-rat to steal,' I shrugged, but still inventoried and tallied the inhabitants of the opera house. The Persian would certainly not steal from me, but he would likely not be allowed in the dancers' quarters. 'Petite Jammes is very devoted to me,' I said, finally settling on her.

'Then I will send a pageboy to fetch you things, and charge Cécile to gather them up.' She rang a bell pull that hung near the settee, and a boy of perhaps fourteen entered. 'Bertran, I have a commission for you, by which you will gain thirty sous, should you execute your task satisfactorily.' He bowed, and she explained quickly, pressing a silver five-franc coin into his hand and telling him forty sous were for the cab fare, both ways, and the remaining sixty sous were to be between himself and Cécile Jammes. He disappeared with another bow. 'Come, let us take a turn in the garden.' Christine rose, and held out her hand, to which I offered my arm, and she leant upon it. As she led me out into the back, she said, 'I shall never get quite accustomed to you offering your arm to me like that, now that I know you are a woman.'

'It is only gallant,' I smiled back.

As we entered the garden, I was astonished at its verdant beauty; it was a veritable oasis in the heart of the city. Christine had two greenhouses, one containing grape-vines and peach trees, and the other cultivating her favourite summer flowers.

'Do you like gardening?' she inquired, as I bent my face into a blossom of fuschia.

'I have never grown flowers, only herbs to stock my kitchen with'

'Oh? Are you a tolerable gardener?'

'In truth, I do not know; it does not take so fine a hand to cultivate basil or thyme.'

'Of course.' She shook her head. 'You play instruments, do you not?'

'A few, though I claim mastery of none but my voice.'

'Yes, of course. I have learnt a little of the piano and harpsichord, but the violin has ever evaded me. My father played beautifully, of course, and taught me to accompany him with my voice.'

'I have heard wondrous things of your voice.' I paused to pluck a branch of lilac from a tree that bowed beneath the weight of its lavender blossoms, pressed it into her palm, 'but I have never had the pleasure of hearing you.'

'Just as I have never heard you sing above the range of a tenor. You are quite a low contralto?'

'I do not exceed three octaves.'

'It is true that the opera does not favour contraltos. We love the birdlike _bel cantos_ supplied by sopranos, though many _cavatinas_ written for parlour entertainment have been penned for the mezzo soprano and the alto range.'

'I have found few who endorse my range, but I cannot help how I was born, or the training that gave me voice.'

'Where did you learn to sing?' she inquired, sniffing the lilac.

'Music was all round me at my birth.' I drew a breath, and wondered how I might change our conversation from the opera, which took a melancholy turn for her. 'I was not born in Ireland, but rather in Egypt, in a city called Gedaref. They sing in the streets, there, in bazaars and before palaces of the old Pharaohs. It was a beautiful, exotic song, never once the same, but always seeming to be part of one song. It is a tradition for beggars not to remain idle while sitting in the streets. Some offer tales, some dance, still others make small toys from coconut-shells, or flowers from palm-fronds. And then, there are the singers.' I glanced at her, wondering fleetingly whether my story was taking on a boasting quality, but no, she was as riveted as I had been hearing my first story of Anansi, the spider talespinner. 'My parents were many things; singers, musicians, weavers, potters. My mother made jewellery from coloured stones she found in the riverbed, and from small coins. My father often performed magic in the streets, while I ran, free as air, and sand with the beggars for coin. Sometimes, I got into mischief with the children in the streets, overturning carts and stealing pastries from vendors.

'Once, we were caught by a city patrol, myself and a handful of urchins, and they brought us to the bailey to frighten us. Their chief of police was a severe, blustering man with a big voice, but with eyes full of laughter. He threatened to cut our hands off, finger by finger.' I smiled to remember. 'I was terrified. He was very harsh to me because I was foreign in appearance, though my Arabic was fluent as a native's. Does that surprise you?' I turned my head casually to glance at her as we walked. She was gazing at me with wide eyes, 'It was my milk-tongue.'

'You know, I should have guessed.' Then she plucked at my sleeve. 'Go on, then.'

'Obviously, the first thing I did was to beg him not to cut off my fingers, and the second thing I did was lie like the devil. I promised him fantastic sums of money, saying that my parents were English diplomats, that they would rather have him beheaded than lose me the use of my fingers. I dare say that he saw straight through my story, but he raged and fumed, then asked me whether he might be permitted to cut off only three of my fingers. It was then that I knew he would not harm any of us, and turned it into a game. I bargained him down to one finger, but I wished to see what would happen should I allow him a single digit in retribution for his trouble.' Christine gaped, and I smiled. 'As you can easily observe, I still retain the use of eight fingers,' her eyes became wide as saucers, 'and two thumbs.' I held up both hands for her examination, and she sighed in relief.

'What, then, did he do?'

'He dragged me into an empty room with a table, drew his scimitar, and raised it above my outstretched small finger. There was a coal of fear in me as he began to lower it, carefully and slowly, closer and closer, until finally he gave a cry and the scimitar descended swiftly down upon me, burying itself an inch deep into the table.'

'Oh dear! What happened?'

'He let go of my hand, and I snatched it away. Then he said, "You know, child, I really abhor the sight of blood. You must take your friends and go, for I cannot be prevailed upon to cut off your hands; it makes me faint." And he released us.'

'And did that teach you not to steal pastries?'

'Oh, yes, and for a full fortnight, I stole nothing but fruits, you can be certain of that.'

'You are a rascal indeed!' Christine shrieked, throwing the lilac at me in a decidedly coquettish fashion.

'Come, now!' I caught the stem before it fell, 'You feared for my fingers, when you have seen that none are absent!' I teased gently, plucking a few blossoms and threading them into my hair.

'You know, you really are a lovely girl,' Christine murmured, studying me. 'Perhaps your complexion has been a little altered by the sun, but if you lips were touched with a hint of carmine, your cheeks rouged, and your eyes given a little outline of kohl or powder, you could be quite charming as a woman.'

'And yet I know that my looks have lent themselves quite naturally to a masculine persuasion. Women fawn over me, so long as they believe I am a man, but never man turned to look at me while the world remains populated by such beauties as you.'

She blushed again, and laughed as she caught herself. 'Perhaps it is more the fault of your egregious charm, my dear Mlle. Avalbane, that causes the ladies to flock to you. You are prettier than you credit yourself.'

I smiled, shifted my cravat so it was less constricting round my throat. 'You must have had admirers by the dozen when you sang at the Garnier,' I reflected, forgetting for a moment, that her time as a prima donna had been reputedly overshadowed by the reign of the terrifying Phantom of the Opera.

'I did not lack for suitors after my initial triumph. But that was when Raoul returned to Paris, and then I had eyes only for him.' I chuckled at her sweetly romantic nature. I wondered whether she had been born under a sign ruled by Venus, for she seemed in love with love itself. She was not, of course, earthily sensual enough to have been born under the constellation of the Bull.

'October, then.' I murmured absentmindedly, and Christine looked at me strangely.

'What is in October?'

'You birth-day, unless I have very much mistaken.'

'How did you know?' she gasped. I gave a courtly bow.

'I am a rudimentary student of astrology, my dear countess. There was a time when I fancied myself a fortune-teller, and made a modest living stopping passers-by and affecting to see into their hearts.'

'Oh, and did you also perform séances?' she inquired. I could tell she was not entirely unacquainted with the appeals of street-corner magicians. 'Have you sold spells?'

'My dear, I have never plied my trade from behind a yellow curtain.' I assured her. 'The séances I have attended have been frauds—all but one.'

'Indeed?'

'Indeed. It was in India, a land of many spirits, where the holy Ganges flows like a serpentine ghost, the bringer of new gods, the punisher of demons. My parents and I had just left Egypt, and were travelling with a tribe of Bedouin herders and messengers called the Rabari. I was nine years of age, my mother had just given birth, so she had little time to tend to me, and my father was often away delivering messages.

'It is very hot in India, very hot indeed, and I was often active while the day was coolest, waking early in the morning, before the sun rose, and napping throughout the worst of the heart. However, one day my wandering took my further than I had ever gone, and the noon sun came beating down upon me with crushing force. I could not see the camp, and had not taken water with me. I looked to the south, and saw, rushing upon me like a demon whirlwind, a dust storm heading my way. I know what it meant. I knew I would die should I not find shelter, and soon.'

'You must have been terrified.'

'Indeed, I was. But it does not do to allow fear to paralyze, as I had learnt all to well in the streets of Gedaref and Alexandria. I ran toward the north as quickly as I could, the sun burning my brow, the sand scorching my feet, even through my sandals. I ran till my muscles ached and my knees buckled, and that is where my story ends for today, for I fear if I tell you too many, you shall grow sick of me.'

'Ah!' Christine clapped her hands in admiration. 'You shall be a veritable Schehera-Zade!'

'And you, my sultan!' I laughed, and spun toward her. 'Oh, I have stories to tell you, that I once also told in the streets for children in the Provençale. But there, again, is another story, for another day.'

'Perhaps some day, I, too, will tell your stories to my children.'

'While Raoul interrupts you to say I told it another way to him.' I could see the scene easily in my mind's eye. Christine, some five or six years older, dandling a tow-headed child full of innocent wonder on her knee, Raoul moustached and dignified, arguing that he had the right of things.

'Perhaps you will be there to tell the story yourself.' Christine reflected, and I was taken suddenly aback. I had truthfully never considered my stay in Paris to be permanent. I never considered my stay anywhere to exceed a year or two. But should I make my fortune in the opera, who knew what I might do? With Raoul's patronage, the fame of my position at the Garnier, what could I not accomplish?

I nodded thoughtfully. 'Perhaps.'


End file.
